^ 


^T  A  L  E  S 


PEERAGE  AND  THE  PEASANTRY. 
EDITED    BY    LADY   DACRE. 


IN     TWO     VOLUMES. 
VOL.    ]L 


NEW. YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

NO.    82    CLIFF-STREET, 

AND    SOLD   BY   TUB    PRINCIPAL   BOOKSKI.LBRS   THROl'GHOU'I    TKB 
UNITED  STATES. 


1835. 


THE 


HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 


CHAPTER  f. 

And  still  it  was  her  nightly  prayer 

To  live  to  close  his  sightless  eyes  ; 
For  this  her  torturing  pains  to  bear, 

Then  sink  in  death  ere  morning  rise. 
Who,  were  she  gone,  the  staft'  would  guide 

With  which  he  feels,  amiss,  his  way  ] 
Who,  careful,  lay  the  stone  aside, 

That  might  his  tottering  footstep  stay  ? 
Who  lead  him  to  the  sheltered  stile 

That  fronts  the  sun  at  noontide  hour  ? 
And  watch  the  western  clouds  the  while 

To  warn  him  of  the  gathering  shower  1 

Unpublished  Ballad  from  Xature. 

In  one  of  the  last  cottages  of  the  village  of  Overhurst, 
dwelt  Nicholas  and  Sarah  Foster.  There,  in  their  ac- 
customed seats,  did  the  neighbours  for  many  years  find 
old  Nicholas,  still  bending  over  the  embers  of  his  humble 
hearth,  and  Sarah  still  gazing  through  the  casement  win- 
dow, in  patient  endurance  of  the  evils  with  which  each 
was  visited. 

They  rest  now  in  their  quiet  graves :  but  those  who 
have  known  that  ancient  couple  will  not  easily  forget 
their  appearance,  or  that  of  all  around  them :  they  will 
remember  the  well-polished  wooden  chair  in  which  the 
old  woman  sat,  both  her  hands  pressed  tightly  against 
her  right  side,  as  if  to  quell  the  tortures  of  an  agonizing 
and  mortal  complaint  which  had  long  preyed  upon  her : 
they  will  remember  the  very  dress  she  wore, — such  as  is 
rarely  seen  of  late  years.     But  Sarah  was  an  English 


4  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

peasant  of  the  olden  time,  and  she  changed  not  with  the 
fashion  of  the  day.  Her  cap  had  a  narrow,  close,  stiff 
border ;  the  crown  was  high  and  well  starched  ;  and 
round  it  was  tightly  pinned  a  broad  piece  of  dark  pur- 
ple riband.  Her  gray  hair  was  turned  back  over  a  roll, 
— one  of  the  last  remaining  specimens  of  that  mode  of 
dressing  the  hair.  Her  waist  reached  to  her  hips  ;  her 
sleeves  were  tight,  and  ended  at  the  elbow.  The  gown 
was  open  in  front ;  and  the  apron,  which  was  of  spot- 
less white,  always  seemed  to  be  just  out  of  the  folds. 

Her  usual  seat,  by  the  long  casement  of  their  clean  and 
decent  kitchen,  commanded  a  view  down  the  village 
street ;  before  her  was  a  clean  deal  table,  which  ran  the 
whole  length  of  the  window,  and  upon  it  lay  her  spec- 
tacles and  a  book  of  prayer. 

Her  countenance  bore  the  traces  of  extreme  suffer- 
ing, and  her  brows  were  always  contracted  ;  but  on  her 
lips  dwelt  a  patient  smile.  She  swayed  her  body  inces- 
santly backward  and  forward,  as  if  to  allay  her  pain  ; 
but  her  voice  was  invariably  cheerful,  and  ever  lively, — 
for  Nicholas  was  blind  ; — and  to  cheer  his  days  of  dark- 
ness was  her  constant  task  of  love. 

Nicholas  in  his  youth  had  been  a  hedger,  and  he  still 
wore  the  brown  leather  coat  peculiar  to  his  calling.  His 
place  was  in  the  chimney  corner ;  his  back  towards  the 
light,  his  two  hands  resting  on  his  staff,  his  chin  upon  his 
hands,  and  his  sightless  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 

Tempted  by  the  beauty  of  the  sunset,  the  'squire's 
family  one  evening  extended  their  walk  to  the  village, 
and,  as  they  frequently  did,  paid  a  visit  to  Master  Foster 
and  his  dame.  Sarah's  face  lighted  up  with  a  momen- 
tary expression  of  joy  as  they  trooped  in,  filling  the 
humble  dwelling ;  and  the  old  man  smiled  upon  them 
the  patient,  placid  smile  of  blindness. 

There  was  the  'squire's  lady,  the  gentle  and  kind  Mrs. 
Mowbray  ;  and  her  blooming  daughter,  the  young  Alice, 
in  the  full  flush  of  maiden  loveliness  ;  and  the  tall,  slen- 
der, merry  Fanny,  just  verging  on  womanhood  ;  and  two 
stout  school-boys ;  and  the  rosy  little  Emma,  who  had 
quickly  gained  possession  of  the  tortoise-sheH  cat,  and 


THE   HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  5 

was  trying  high  its  powers  of  endurance  by  her  childish 
mode  of  fondling  it.  Besides  this,  the  usual  party,  there 
was  a  dark  and  handsome  youth,  who  appeared  to  be  all 
attention  to  Mrs.  Mowbray ;  while  the  young  Alice's 
cheeks  were  more  brilliant  even  than  usual,  her  smile 
more  animated,  and  her  eyes  more  downcast. 

Old  Sarah  Foster  soon  perceived  that  the  village  re- 
port, which  said  the  'squire's  eldest  daughter  was  likely 
to  be  early  settled,  was  better  founded  than  is  usually  the 
case  with  such  reports, 

"  Where  is  Susan  this  evening  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray. 

"  'Tis  Freshfield  fair  to-day,  madam,"  answered  fhe 
dame,  "and  all  the  young  people  hereabout  are  gone  to 
see  the  humours  of  it:  and  so  her  father  and  I  thought 
poor  Susan  should  take  a  little  amusement  for  once. 
She  has  but  a  dull  life  with  us,  so  poorly  as  I  am,  and  so 
helpless  as  my  good  man  is  !" 

"  I  think  you  look  rather  better  this  evening.  Dame 
Foster,"  said  Alice,  who  was  in  that  happy  frame  of 
mind  when  it  is  painful  to  be  obliged  to  believe  others 
less  fortunate  than  one's  self,  and  when  one  had  far  rather 
be  called  upon  to  sympathize  in  their  joys,  than  in  their 
sorrows. 

"  Thank  you.  Miss  Alice,"  replied  the  old  woman, 
while  a  sudden  pain  caused  the  smile  with  whi^%  slic 
tried  to  receive  Alice's  kind  words,  to  die  away  on  her 
lips,  and  her  brows  involuntarily  to  become  more  con- 
tracted. "  Thank  you,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  am  much 
as  usual ;  but  I  do  not  mind  my  pains  as  long  as  I  am 
able  to  do  for  my  poor  Nicholas.  I  know  his  ways  so 
well.  Susan  herself  could  not  guess  all  his  thoughts  as 
I  can.  Blindness  is  a  heavy  affliction,  ladies.  He  wants 
some  one  who  can  speak  comfort  to  him  at  times,  when 
he  gets  thinking  his  sad  thoughts  ;  some  one  who  can  talk 
of  by-gone  days,  when  we  had  every  thing  to  make  us 
happy  ;  and  one  who  can  remind  him  of  that  better 
place  where  we  shall  be  happier  than  even  the  happiest 
are  in  this  world.  Morning  and  night  I  pray  to  be  spared 
as  long  as  my  poor  Nicholas  lives,  however  hard  my 
a2 


6  TlIE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

pains  may  be  to  bear ;  and  morning  and  night  I  pray 
that,  wlien  he  is  gone,  I  may  never  see  another  sun 
rise." 

A  silence  of  some  moments  ensued.  All  were  touched 
by  the  pure  and  devoted  affection  so  unconsciously  ex- 
pressed by  the  old  woman.  Alice's  eyes  had  filled  with 
tears  ;  for  one  instant  they  were  raised  to  those  of  the 
youth  to  whom  she  was  betrothed,  but  they  as  quickly 
fell  again. 

"  1  am  sure,  dame,  you  are  a  pattern  for  all  wives,"  at 
length  added  JMrs.  JMowbray. 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  distant  merriment  was 
heard  ;  and  parties  of  young  folks,  the  slant  western 
sun  shining  on  their  holyday  apparel,  were  seen  trooping 
down  the  headland  of  the  opposite  hill,  under  the  shelter 
of  the  hazel  copse. 

"  My  fc?usan  will  soon  be  at  home,"  said  the  dame,  "  for 
I  lold  her  to  be  sure  and  not  stay  late  at  these  merry- 
makings. I  always  hold  that  no  good  comes  of  too  much 
pleasure,  madam  ;  and,  in  my  young  days,  girls  had  not 
half  the  liberty  they  take  now.  I  can't  say,  however,  but 
that  Susan  is  a  good  girl,  and  minds  what  we  old  folks 
say  to  her:  but  she  is  light-hearted, poor  thing  !  and  has 
not  known  trouble  yet — God  grant  it  nrray  be  long  before 
she  does  !  There  she  comes,  poor  girl !  Ah  !  time  was 
when  I  could  move  as  nimbly  as  she  does,  and  laugh  as 
heartily.  You  must  excuse  her,  ladies :  she  little  thinks 
what  visiters  we  have  in  our  cottage,  or  she  would  know 
better  than  to  be  so  free  of  her  jokes,"  added  the  dame, 
as  Susan  and  her  lover  reached  the  garden  gate,  and  she 
laughingly  shut  it  against  him,  and  ran  into  the  cottage. 

Upon  finding  herself  in  the  presence  of  the  'squire's 
family,  she  stopped  suddenly,  while  the  blood  rushed  over 
her  face ;  and  she  dropped  a  courtesy,  graceful  in  its 
awkwardness,  and  took  refuge  close  to  her  mother's  chair. 
George  Wells,  meanwhile,  had  followed  ;  and,  threaten- 
ing that  he  would  steal  a  kiss  in  revenge  for  the  trick  she 
had  played  him,  burst  into  the  cottage  after  her.  His 
shamefaced  look  of  dismay,  when  he  perceived  the  com- 
pany assembled,  was  irresistibly  comic.     Mrs.  Mowbray 


THE  HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  7 

smiled,  Fanny  tried  to  be  serious,  the  two  boys  laughed 
outright,  while  Alice  and  Captain  Harcourt  each  main- 
tained a  countenance  of  imperturbable  unconsciousness. 

The  visit  was  now  speedily  brought  to  a  conclusion  ; 
and  Susan  and  her  lover  were  left  to  settle  their  little 
quarrel,  relieved  from  the  awe  inspired  by  "  the  gentle- 
folks." 

They  had  already,  as.  it  is  termed,  kept  company  two 
years.  George  had  saved  enough  to  furnish  a  cottage 
decently ;  and  Susan  had  already  provided  the  linen, 
blankets,  and  counterpane,  which,  among  the  better  sort 
of  poor  people,  and  those  who  think  it  necessary  to  make 
any  provision  before  they  enter  into  the  marriage  state, 
is  reckoned  the  proper  dowry  of  the  bride.  They  only 
waited  to  hear  of  a  cottage  which  they  might  rent,  before 
they  were  asked  in  church. 

George  Wells  was  invited  to  stay  supper,  and  the  quick 
and  lively  Susan  had  soon  arranged  the  humble  meal. 
The  rashers  of  bacon  were  fried,  the  smoking  potatoes 
were  on  the  table  :  she  had  placed  her  father's  chair,  and 
she  gently  led  him  from  his  chimney  nook,  and  settled 
him  comfortably  to  his  supper ;  then,  gayly  kissing  him 
on  the  forehead,  she  began  to  tell  him  of  the  wonders 
they  had  seen  at  the  fair.  The  old  man  turned  his  sight- 
less eyes  towards  her,  and,  leaning  forward  as  he  listened, 
smiled  placidly  to  hear  of  all  the  brilliant  things  which  he 
might  never  gaze  on  again  ;  and  the  dame  forgot  her 
pains  for  a  while,  rejoicing  in  the  happiness  of  her  child. 
"  But,  mother,  you  do  not  know  why  I  am  so  overjoyed 
to-day  !  I  have  such  a  piece  of  news  for  you  !  1  think 
you  will  be  as  pleased  as  I  am,  and  father  too  !  Won't 
they,  George  ?" 

"Maybe  they  will,  if  it  comes  true." 

"  Well,  mother,  guess." 

"  I  never  was  a  good  guesser,  Susan,  not  in  my  best 
days  ;  and  I  shall  never  begin  now." 

"  Well,  father,  do  you  guess,  then." 

'*  Lord  save  you,  child  !  how  should  I  know  ?  Maybe 
'tis  that  the  'squire  will  give  away  coals  gratis  to  the  poor 
this  Christmas  ?" 


8  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

"  No,  't  aint  that ;  'tis  something  that  will  moke  us 
happy  at  Christmas  and  at  Lady-day,  at  Midsummer  and 
at  Michaelmas,  and  all  the  year  round,  as  long  as  we  all 
live." 

"  If  so  be  that  it  comes  true  ;  but  we  are  not  sure  yet, 
Susan,"  interposed  the  more  steady  George,  who  did  not 
run  away  with  a  notion  so  quickly  as  the  light-hearted 
Susan. 

"  Oh,  George  !  I  know  they  will  give  up  the  cottage  ; 
you  will  see  if  tiiey  don't.  They  say,  father,  that  Master 
Mumford  is  going  to  set  up  carpenter,  and  that  he  is  to 
move  to  Mr.  Peters's  shop,  and  Mr.  Peters  is  to  be  a  great 
cabinetmaker,  at  Turnholme ;  and  then  what  should 
hinder  us  taking  Master  Mumford's  cottage,  and  living 
next  door  to  you  ?  I  should  not  mind  marrying,  if  I  was 
to  go  no  farther  than  that  from  you  and  mother :  for  then 
1  could  do  for  you  as  well  as  I  can  now,  and  mother  need 
only  just  trouble  herself  with  little  odd  jobs  that  will  be 
rather  a  pleasure  than  a  trouble  to  her." 

"  But,  Susan,  we  don't  know,  even  if  Master  Mumford 
should  set  up  at  Mr.  Peters's,  whether  the  'squire  will  let 
the  cottage  to  us.  If  you  run  off  so  at  score,  maybe 
you'll  only  meet  with  a  disappointment.  However,  I  am 
willing  to  go  to  the  'squire's  to-morrow  morning,  and  see 
what  1  can  do." 

"  That's  right,  George  I"  exclaimed  the  eager  Susan  ; 
"  that's  what  1  have  been  wanting  all  along !" 

"Well,  I  never  said  I  was  against  trying;  only  I  aint 
for  making  too  sure  of  a  thing  before  we  have  got  it.  You 
have  heard,  maybe,  Susan,  of  counting  your  chickens 
before  they  are  hatched." 

"  Don't  you  make  game  of  me,  George  !  I'll  answer 
for  it,  the  'squire  is  not  the  man  to  say  no  to  us ;  he  has 
always  been  a  kind  friend  to  father  :"  while  the  suspicion 
that  he  seldom  missed  an  opportunity  of  asking  her  how 
she  did,  and  taking  a  look  at  her  sparkling'  biack  eyes, 
may  have  increased  her  reliance  on  his  kindness  to  her 
blind  father. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  enough  if  we  are  so  lucky  as  to  get 
the  refusal  of  it,"  replied  George  ;  "  for  I  see  little  chance 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  9 

of  our  finding  any  other  place  hereabout ;  and  I  would 
never  be  the  man  to  take  you  into  another  parish,  with 
your  parents  such  poor  afflicted  creatures  as  they  are  ! 
I'm  not  one  of  your  high-flown  flighty  folks ;  and  I've 
never  read  any  of  such  fine  books  as  you  and  your  school- 
fellows sometimes  get  hold  of,  Susan  ;  but  I  can  read  my 
Bible  pretty  middling,  and  I  know  what  is  the  duty  we 
owe  to  our  parents,  who  took  care  of  us  when  we  could 
do  nothing  for  ourselves,  and  I  would  never  wish  my  wife 
not  to  be  a  dutiful  child." 

Old  Surah  Foster  looked  approvingly  at  her  future 
son-in-law ;  and  Nicholas  said,  "  You  are  a  young  man 
with  good  principles,  and  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  give  our 
Susan  to  such  a  one  as  you.  When  I  die,  I  shall  rest 
quiet  in  my  grave,  if  I  know  she  is  married  to  you." 

"  They  did  not  always  speak  so  of  you,  George,"  an- 
swered the  merry  girl,  "  You  used  to  say  I  was  a  wilful 
girl,  did  not  you,  father,  when  I  said  I  would  have  George 
or  nobody  ?  So,  after  all,  I  have  got  an  old  head  on 
young  shoulders,  though  nobody  has  given  me  credit  for 
it  yet !" 

It  was  not  many  weeks  after  Freshfield  fair  when  the 
village  of  Overhurst  was  all  alive  with  another  and  a 
greater  jubilee.  The  church  bells  rang  a  merry  peal 
from  the  very  sunrise  ;  the  village  maidens,  in  their  most 
trim  apparel,  were  in  waiting  to  strew  flowers  on  the 
path  of  Alice  Mowbray  and  Captain  Harcourt ;  an  ox 
was  roasted  whole  in  Overhurst  Park,  and  the  beer  flowed 
as  beer  should  flow  on  such  occasions. 

The  'squire  had  promised  Master  Mumford's  house  to 
George  Wells,  and  he  had  obtained  Susan's  consent  that 
they  should  soon  be  asked  in  church.  Susan  was  all 
blushes  and  smiles,  as,  among  other  maidens,  she  scat- 
tered flowers  on  the  path ;  and  she  courtesied  with  a 
pretty  confusion  when  the  bride  gave  her  a  nod  of  recog- 
nition, as  she  hurried  past  into  the  travelling  carriage  at 
the  gate. 

Hitherto  all  had  seemed  to  smile  on  Susan  ;  for,  having 
been  accustomed  to  them  from  her  youth,  her  father's 
blindness  and  her  mother's  ill  health  did  not  dwell  upon 


10  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE 

her  mind  as  misfortunes ;  while  the  wish  to  enliven  her 
parents,  and  the  pleasure  they  took  in  her  t^prightliness, 
had  rather  tended  to  increase  the  natural  gayety  of  her 
disposition.  But  on  this,  the  happiest  day  of  her  life,  a 
change  came  over  the  destiny  of  Susan  Foster. 

The  festivities  of  Overhurst  Park  concluded  with  a 
dance  on  the  green ;  and  Susan,  gay,  blooming,  and 
thoughtless,  seemed  to  be  the  reigning  village  belle. 

The  scene  was  one  which  could  not  be  looked  upon 
without  interest.  There  the  good-natured  Mrs.  Mowbray 
might  be  seen,  moving  about  among  her  humble  guests, 
with  a  kind  word  for  each.  She  was  flushed  and  agitated, 
breathless  and  tearful ;  but  she  had  given  her  daughter 
to  a  son-in-law  whom  she  thought  perfection,  and  she  was 
as  happy  as  a  mother  can  be  who  has  for  the  first  time 
parted  from  her  child.  The  simple  congratulations  of 
the  poor  people  overcame,  while  they  pleased  her.  The 
tears  started  into  her  eyes  when  she  heard  the  hearty 
*'  God  bless  Miss  Alice  !"  "  May  the  captain  niak^  her  a 
good  husband  !"  "  May  Miss  Alice  be  as  happy  as  she 
deserves  to  be  !"  which  greeted  her  on  all  sides. 

Half  ashamed  of  her  own  emotion,  she  turned  away 
to  a  demure  and  staid  matron,  who  sat  somewhat  apart, 
watching  the  young  ones  as  they  footed  it  merrily  on  the 
grass  to  the  music  of  the  village  band :  "  We\\,  Dame 
Dixon,  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  yourself,  and  that  you 
have  had  every  thing  you  wished  for  ?" 

*'  Every  thing  was  beautiful,  I  am  sure,  madam,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Dixon,  rising  respectfully  from  her  seat:  "his 
honour  has  treated  us  with  the  best  of  every  tiling." 

"  Is  your  daughter  among  the  dancers?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Mowbray,  as  she  saw  Mrs.  Dixon's  eye  glance  frequently 
towards  the  country-dance. 

"  Yes,  madam  ;  Jane  is  very  partial  to  dancing — al- 
most too  partial,"  she  continued,  as  a  bouncing  couple 
came  flying  by  beyond  the  double  hedge  of  dancers. 
*'  Jane,"  said  the  mother,  as  she  clutched  the  maiden's 
elbow,  "  don't  you  see  that  madam  is  here  ?  Where's 
your  manners,  girl  1" 

Jane  stopped  short,  dropped  a  sort  of  courtesy,  and 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE, 


11 


composed  her  laughing  countenance,  while  the  partner 
disappeared  among  the  crowd,  with  the  sheepish  bash- 
fulness  which  characterizes  an  English  clown,  especially 
in  his  youth. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  stopped  their  dancing,"  said 
Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  Pray,  do  not  mind  me,  Jane.  I  hope 
I  have  not  frightened  away  your  partner ;"  and  the  kind 
hostess  glided  on. 

"What  is  become  of  Will  Smith?"  asked  Dame 
Dixon. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Jane  ;  "  and  what's  more,  I 
don't  care.  I'm  very  tired,"  she  continued,  as  she  let 
herself  drop  on  the  bench  by  her  mother's  side  ;  while 
her  countenance  relaxed  into  as  decided  an  expression  of 
sadness,  as  it  had  previously  worn  of  uncontrolled  mer- 
riment. 

"  Then  I  am  sure,  Jane,  I  wish  you  would  not  make 
so  free  with  him,  nor  with  half  a  dozen  other  young  men. 
You  have  tbo  much  to  say  to  them  by  half." 

"  It  won't  do  to  sit  and  mope,"  cried  Jane,  starting  up 
as  George  Wells  and  Susan  Foster  were  slowly  advan- 
cing to  join  the  dancers,  w^th  a  lingering  step,  as  though 
they  were  loath  to  have  their  conversation  broken  in  upon. 
Jane  was  off  like  a  startled  deer  ;  and  in  a  few  moments 
Dame  Dixon  saw  her  dancing  away  with  more  spirit 
than  ever,  having  already  provided  herself  with  another 
partner. 

Mr.  Mowbray  meantime  had  stopped  Susan  Foster  to' 
speak  to  her,  and  she  was  blushing  and  courtesying  un- 
der the  compliments  he  was  paying  her  on  her  bright 
skin  and  her  black  eyes,  and  George  was  shifting  from 
leg  to  leg  under  the  compliments  he  was  paying  him 
upon  his  good  taste  and  his  good  fortune. 

Mr.  Mowbray  had  an  eye  for  beauty,  and  certainly 
felt  the  glow  of  charity  more  strongly  in  his  bosom  to- 
wards the  young  and  the  good-looking  of  his  parishioners, 
than  towards  the  old  and  the  ill-favoured  ;  at  least,  he 
was  apt  to  think  Mrs.  Mowbray  understood  the  wants 
and  the  sorrows  of  the  latter  better  than  he  did. 

•'  And  who  is  that  buxom  lass  ?"  said  he  to  his  wife, 


12  THE    HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE. 

who  was  looking  on  upon  the  scene ;  "  she  is  a  hght- 
hearted  one.     How  indefatigable  she  is  !" 

"  That  is  old  Dixon's  daughter,  Jane,  to  whom  you  al- 
ways used  to  give  a  shiUing  lor  opening  the  gate,  because 
her  eyes  were  so  blue." 

"  So  she  is  !  Faith,  she  has  turned  out  a  fine  creature  ! 
But,  bless  me !  who  is  this  pretty  woman  1  Quite  an 
elegcmte,  I  declare  !     Where  can  she  come  from  ?" 

"Why,  from  our  own  farn)  of  Holmy-bank,  to  be 
sure.  Do  you  not  sec  Farmer  Otley  close  behind  her  ; 
and  do  you  not  know  he  has  been  married  this  year, 
though  they  are  only  lately  come  to  the  farm  ?" 

"  Why,  you  know,  my  dear,  1  have  a  taste  for  the 
beautiful,  and  not  for  the  sublime ;  and  I  quite  overlook 
every  thing  else  when  there  is  such  a  pretty  woman  as 
this  to  be  seen." 

"  I  am  sure,  if  you  are  thinking  of  beauty,  Mr.  Otley 
is  almost  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life ; 
and  if  she  looks  like  a  lady  with  her  smart  dress,  lie 
looks  ten  times  more  really  distinguished,  with  tnose  fine 
features,  and  his  head  like  an  antique  gem,  though  he  is 
dressed  as  befits  his  station  of  life." 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  may  admire  Mr.  Otley  if  you 
like  it :  it  is  only  fair  to  allow  me  to  admire  his  wife.  I 
have  just  recollected,  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  Far- 
mer Otley,"  continued  Mr.  Mowbray,  laughing ;  and  he 
was  soon  in  deep  conversation  with  his  tenant  about  his 
course  of  cropping  and  his  stock ;  while  Mrs.  Mowbray 
secretly  reflected,  "  Mr.  Mowbray  is  growing  too  old  to 
talk  so  much  about  beauty.  1  feel  quite  uncomfortable 
when  he  goes  on  so  before  the  children." 

"  Well,  mamma  !"  interposed  Fanny  ;  "  don't  you  think 
Susan  Foster  is  much  prettier  than  Mrs.  Otley  ?  Her 
eyes  are  much  larger,  in  the  first  place  ;  and  then  she  is 
so  quiet,  and  does  not  look  up  and  down  so ;  and  then, 
as  for  her  nose — " 

"  My  dear,  Susan  Foster  is  a  very  respectable,  worthy 
young  woman,  and  very  good-looking  ;  and  now  do  not 
let  us  hear  any  more  about  beauty.  I  am  really  sick  of 
the  subject." 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  13 

It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  jealous,  for  Mr. 
Mowbray  was  a  kind  husband,  and  she  knew  it  was  only 
"  his  way."  She  knew  that  his  foible  was  not  to  "  affect 
a  virtue  though  he  had  it  not ;"  but  rather  to  talk,  as  if 
he  were  far  less  scrupulous  than  he  really  was.  It  was 
only  before  the  children,  or  in  the  hearing  of  strangers, 
who  did  not  know  "his  way,"  that  Mrs.  Mowbray  felt 
seriously  annoyed. 

Mr.  Otley  was  of  course  gratified  when  his  landlord 
wished  to  be  introduced  to  his  wife  ;  and  Mr.  Mowbray, 
with  twinkling  eyes  and  a  gay  smile,  was  soon  inquiring 
into  the  condition  of  her  pigs,  her  poultry,  and  her  dairy. 

"  Oh,  sir  !"  she  replied,  with  a  tender  look  at  her  hus- 
band ;  "  you  must  not  ask  me  about  the  pigs  :  Mr.  O. 
says  1  am  a  sad  fine  lady"  (and  she  looked  up  for  ap- 
plause) ;  "  but  I  never  could^  bear  the  smell  of  those 
creatures"  (and  she  looked  down  with  a  refined  cast  of 
countenance) :  "  but  I  am  very  fond  of  my  dairy  ;  am 
I  not,  Mr.  O.  ?  and  I  slip  on  my  clogs  every  morning, 
and  step  into  my  dairy  ;  don't  I,  Mr.  O.  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  Lizzy,  you  do  that,  to  be  sure ;  but  my 
mother  used  to  see  to  the  scouring  of  the  milk-pans  her- 
self, and  would  never  let  father  have  any  peace  if  there 
was  not  always  plenty  of  wood-ashes  to  clean  them  with, 
every  morning." 

"  Oh  dear,  Mr.  Otley  !  don't  you  go  off"  now  about 
that  dear  good  old  soul,  your  poor  dear  mother.  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Mowbray  will  not  care  to  hear  what  she  did 
twenty  years  ago." 

"  I  had  always  rather  hear  about  a  pretty,  young 
woman  of  the  present  day,  than  about  an  old'  one,  be 
she  ever  so  good,  of  the  past  day,"  replied  Mr.  Mow- 
bray, with  a  bow  ;  and  Mrs.  Otley  simpered,  and  blushed, 
and  looked  down,  and  removed  a  curl  which  fell  a  little 
too  much  over  her  eyes,  and  then  added,  turning  to  her 
husband — 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Otley,  I  have  promised  to  be  very 
good  about  the  poultry,  and  to  look  after  the  eggs  every 
morning,  as  soon  as  you  have  made  a  raised  path  across 
the  farmyard  to  the  henhouse.     But  really,  sir,  the  farm- 

VOL.   II. B 


14  THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 

yard  is  in  such  a  pickle,  that  nobody  but  the  labouring 
men  could  think  of  crossing  it." 

"  Impossible  that  Mr.  Otley  can  have  so  little  gallantry 
as  to  wish  those  pretty  little  feet  should  step  into  the 
farmyard  !     He  would  not  be  such  a  Goth !" 

"That's just  what  I  am  always  telling  Mr.  O.,"  added 
Mrs.  Otley,  turning  round  exultingly  ;  "I  am  always 
telling  him  he  is  a  Goth  and  a  Vandal ;  and  then  he  says 
he  does  not  know  who  the  Goths  and  the  Vandals  are  ; 
and  then  I  laugh,  and  tell  him  he  is  more  of  a  Goth  and 
a  Vandal  than  ever." 

"  Ah,  Lizzy  !  you  must  not  mind  every  thing  his  hon- 
our says ;  he  is  pleased  to  joke  sometimes.  But  he 
knows  well  enough  that  a  former  has  need  of  his  head, 
and  both  his  hands,  too,  and  that  a  farmer's  wife  should 
be  a  stirring  body :  he  knows  well  enough  they  are  the 
sort  who  pay  their  rent  to  the  day,  and  keep  their  land 
in  good  condition." 

"  You,  and  your  father  before  you,  have  been  very 
good  tenants.  Master  Otley ;  no  landlord  need  wish  for 
better — but  here  comes  Mrs.  Mowbray.  My  dear,  you 
must  allow  me  to  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  you 
to  our  new  neighbour,  our  friend  Mr.  Otley's  pretty 
wife." 

Mrs.  Otley  simpered,  "  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  already 
done  her  the  honour — " 

"  You  need  not  introduce  us,  Mr.  Mowbray,"  ansv^ered 
Mrs.  Mowbray,  with  a  shade  of  asperity  in  her  tone, 
which  amused  her  husband  ;  "  I  have  already  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs.  Otley's  pretty  farm,  and  her 
sweet  little  boy:  Emma  and  I  walked  to  Holmy-banka 
few  days  ago,  and  Mr.  Otley  showed  us  all  about  the 
place." 

♦'  IIow  are  the  dear  little  calves,  Mr.  Otley,"  exclaimed 
Emma,  "that  Fanny  and  I  were  feeding?" 

"  They  are  growing  nicely,  thank  you,  young  ladies," 
replied  the  farmer,  "  and  1  should  be  proud  to  show  them 
to  you  again  if  you  would  favour  us  with  a  call." 

"  Oh  I  Mrs.  Otley,  what  a  pleasure  the  calves  must  be 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    €OTTAGE.  15 

to  you  1  1  dare  say  you  pass  half  the  day  in  feeding  them  : 
I  am  sure  I  should  !" 

"  They  are  pretty,  innocent  creatures,  indeed,  miss ; 
and  if  our  old  Daniel  would  keep  the  pens  a  little  cleaner, 
I  should  have  no  objection  to  looking  at  them  oftener 
than  I  do.  But,  if  Mrs.  Mowbray  should  honour  us  with 
another  visit,  1  think  I  could  show  you  something  that 
would  please  young  ladies  more  than  such  common, 
every-day  creatures  as  calves.  I  have  got  two  beautiful 
greenparrots,  that  can  chatter,  and  will  repeat  any  thing. 
And  1  am  sure  it  would  please  you  to  see  the  curious 
Gothic  castle,  all  made  of  shells,  and  the  lady  at  the 
window  playing  on  the  guitar!" 

"  Oh  !  I  should  like  another  walk  to  Holmy-bank  of  all 
things ;  but  it  would  be  to  see  the  dear  calves — I  like 
them  much  better  than  parrots." 

"  My  girls  are  very  homely  in  their  tastes,  Mrs.  Ot- 
ley ;  they  are  quite  country  lasses  ;"  and  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray glided  on,  a  little  provoked  that  her  husband  should 
find  so  much  to  say  to  such  a  would-be  fine  lady  as  the 
farmer's  pretty  wife — "  And  he  has  never  remembered 
to  speak  once  to  good  old  Mrs.  Williams,  our  own  stew- 
ard's mother,"  she  thought,  as  she  proceeded  towards 
Mrs.  Williams,  in  order  to  make  up  for  his  omission. 

The  evening  was  now  beginning  to  close  ;  tbe  cock- 
chaffers  were  humming  under  the  beech-trees,  and  were 
flying  into  the  faces  and  among  the  hair  of  those  who 
had  taken  refuge  under  their  shade.  Much  was  the 
merriment  they  gave  rise  to,  and  many  a  rustic  coquette 
affected  a  little  more  fear  than  she  really  felt  of  their 
harmless,  though  sticky  claws;  while  .Tane  Dixon  laughed 
rather  longer  and  louder  than  the  occasion  seemed  to 
require. 

The  SUB  had  sunk  quite  below  the  horizon ;  and  the 
vapours,  which  had  been  rising  during  the  heat  of  the 
sultry  day,  were  suddenly  condensed,  and  hung  on  the 
lower  grounds,  looking  silvery  white  under  the  light  of 
the  summer  moon. 

Susan  and  some  other  village  girls,  tired  with  dancing 
and  tije  excitement  of  the  day,  mounted  an  empty  wagon 


16  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

which  was  returning  homeward,  and  the  merry  group  of 
thoughtless  young  creatures  thus  made  their  entry  into 
the  quiet  village  street.  Susan  had,  in  the  exuberance 
of  her  spirits,  danced  the  longest  and  the  latest ;  the  day 
had^been  oppressively  hot,  but  with  the  evening  came  a 
heavy  dew,  and  the  air  was  chilly.  When  Susan  arrived 
at  home,  her  mother  thought  she  looked  pale ;  and  scolded 
George  for  having  allowed  her  to  return  in  the  wagon, 
after  having  heated  herself  with  dancing. 

"  Time  enough  for  me  to  mind  him,  mother,  when 
once  v/e  are  married,"  answered  the  joyous  girl ;  "  I 
have  but  a  little  while  longer  to  be  my  own  mistress,  and 
I  must  use  my  liberty  now,  or  never !"  and  the  gay  crea- 
ture laughed,  conscious  of  her  power  over  father,  mother, 
and  lover. 

"  Oh,  mother,  we  have  been  so  happy  !  I  never  was  so 
happy  before,  and,  maybe,  never  shall  be  again  !  never, 
at  least,  if  you-  teach  George  that  I  am  not  to  have  my 
own  way !"  and  she  turned  her  beaming  eyes  from  her 
mother  to  her  lover,  while  old  Sarah  hoped  she  had 
many  days  in  store  for  her  of  more  true  happiness  if 
not  of  such  flighty  gayety.  Alas  !  it  was  well  for  them 
they  could  not  look  into  futurity. 

The  next  morning  Susan  awoke  with  a  heavy  cold, 
and  an  unusual  pain  in  her  eyes  ;  they  were  bloodshot 
and  inflamed.  The  dame  reproached  her  with  her 
imprudence,  and  doctored  her  with  that  degree  of  dis- 
cretion which  is  usual  among  tlie  poor  people.  Her 
eyes  became  hourly  more  painful. 

As  he  returned  from  work,  George  paid  her  his  ac- 
customed visit.  He  wished  she  would  see  the  doctor  ; 
but  she  laughingly  replied  she  should  be  well  to-mor- 
row, for  old  Dame  Jones  had  given  her  an  infallible 
remedy  for  all  complaints  of  the  eyes. 


THE   HAMPSHIRE   COTTAOE.  17 


CHAPTER  11. 

O  dolce  Amor  che  di  riso  t'ammanti 
Quanlo  parevi  ardente  in  que'  favilli 
Ch'aveano  spirto  sol  di  pensier  santi. 

Dante,  Paradise,  cant.  20mo. 

Dame  Jones's  infallible  remedy  rather  increased  than 
diminished  the  evil  ;  and  Susan's  spirits  be^an  to  fail 
her  at  the  continued  suffering,  the  enforced  idleness, 
and  also  in  some  degree  at  the  disfigurement  occasioned 
by  the  dimming  of  her  brilliant  eyes  ;  for  she  was  not 
without  a  share  of  female  vanity, — vanity  which  is  in- 
dulged as  almost  a  laudable  feeling  when  it  is  for  the 
sake  of  another  that  personal  attractions  are  valued. 

The  Sunday  on  which  Susan  and  her  lover  were  to 
be  asked  in  church  was  fast  approaching,  when  she  half 
sadly,  half  sportively,  thus  addressed  him  :  "  You  had 
better  go  to  Mr.  Sandford,  George,  and  tell  him  not  to 
say  any  thing  about  us  in  church.  It  would  never  do 
to  be  a  bride  with  such  eyes  as  these  ;"  and  she  tried 
to  smile,  though  she  was  more  inclined  to  weep. 

"  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  your  eyes  to  get 
quite  well,  Susan,  before  we  are  out-asked." 

"  They  must  begin  to  mend,  George,  before  we  need 
talk  of  their  getting  well,"  replied  Susan  with  a  sigh  ; 
and  then  she  playfully  added,  "Do  you  remember 
your  telling  me  when  Miss  Alice,  that  was,  walked 
down  the  churchyard,  looking  so  blushing  and  beauti- 
ful, that  you  would  show  them  a  prettier  bride  before 
long  ;  and  that,  though  she  would  not  have  such  a 
smart  lace  veil  to  hang  over  her  face,  she  would  have  a 
pair  of  brighter  eyes  to  shine  out  of  her  bonnet.  You 
must  wait  a  bit,  George,  before  your  words  can  come 
true." 

B  2 


18  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

"  Not  long,  Susan,  not  long ;  I  am  sure  you  will  be  well 
before  three  weeks  are  over :  that's  a  long  time." 

"  So  it  is,  George — a  long,  long  time  to  be  as  I  am  ! 
But  the  folks  shan't  laugh  at  you  for  having  such  a  homely, 
half-bjiiid  bride.  I  should  not  like  you  to  be  ashamed  of 
your  wife  upon  the  wedding-day,  at  all  events  ;"  and  she 
tried  to  carry  off  her  sadness  and  her  mortification  by  an 
assumed  air  of  sprightliness. 

Still,  poor  Susan's  eyes  did  not  mend ;  her  mother's  ' 
applications  and  Dame  .Tones's  wonderful  remedy  proved 
equally  unavailing.  Susan's  spirits  quite  gave  way :  she 
often  sat  and  wept  when  her  mothers  back  was  towards 
her,  and  her  sightless  father  could  not  perceive  how  sad 
his  once  light-hearted  girl  was  now  become.  After  Alice's 
marriage,  the  family  of  the  Mowbrays  had  left  home  for 
some  time,  and  Mr.  Sandford  was  old,  and  had  been  ill, 
or  Susan's  sufferings  would  never  have  been  allowed  to 
continue  so  long  without  being  provided  with  better  medi- 
cal attendance.  The  old  couple  themselves  had  derived 
so  little  benefit  from  the  advice  of  doctors,  that  they,  as 
is  frequently  the  case  among  the  poor,  reposed  more 
confidence  in  the  doctoring  of  Mr.  Sandford,  or  of  any 
other  gentleman  or  lady,  than  in  that  of  the  first  physician 
in  the  land.  They  all  felt  anxious  that  the  good  minister 
should  recover  his  health,  and  visit  them ;  and  they  flat- 
tered themselves  he  would  soon  afford  Susan  some  relief. 
When  he  did  call,  he  was  shocked  at  the  alteration  in  the 
poor  girl's  appearance,  and  he  instantly  sent  for  the  best 
medical  practitioner  in  the  neighbourhood,  deeming  the 
case  much  too  important  a  one  for  his  own  unassisted 
advice. 

Mr.  vSand ford's  countenance  first  excited  alarm,  serious 
alarm  in  Susan's  mind  :  for  the  first  time  she  trembled 
for  her  eyesight :  and  an  icy  chill  ran  through  her  when 
she  thought  of  her  future  fate. 

George  called  as  he  returned  home  from  work  ;  and, 
on  hearing  that  Mr.  Sandford  had  visited  the  cottage,  his 
countenance  brightened  :  "  Then  now  we  shall  see  you 
begin  to  mend  !     What  has  our  good  minister  told  you  to 


THE    HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE.  19 

do,  Susan  ?    Am  I  to  go  to  his  house  lo-night  to  fetch  any 
stuff  for  you  ?" 

*'  No,  George,  no  ;  he  saj's  I  must  see  the  real  doctor ; 
he  says  he  can't  do  any  thing  for  me  himself."  George 
looked  amazed  and  confounded.  "  He  says  he  does  not 
understand  such  things  himself;"  and  she  added,  in  a  tone 
which  she  tried  to  make  perfectly  calm  and  composed, 
"he  says  he  is  afraid  I  shall  not  be  well  for  a  long 
time." 

George  was  in  despair.  He  thought  if  Mr.  Sand  ford 
could  not  cure  a  complaint,  it  must  indeed  be  a  bad  one  ! 
He  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  old  dame  :  she  sat,  as 
usual,  rocking  herself  backward  and  forward,  with  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  side,  in  mental  as  well  as  bodily 
suffering-;  for  she  too  had  been  struck  by  the  manner  of 
their  pastor.  "  We  shall  hear  what  the  doctor  says  to- 
morrow, George.  I  am  sorry  now  that  we  kept  waiting 
and  waiting  for  Mr.  Sandford  to  get  well ;  but  1  have  had 
enough  of  doctors  in  my  time,  and  I  was  loath  to  begin 
again  with  them.  We  must  hope  for  the  best,  and  not 
be  down-hearted." 

"  She  is  young,  poor  thing !"  added  old  Nicholas ; 
"  and  'tis  to  be  hoped  she  won't  be  afflicted  at  her  age  as 
I  am.  I  was  near  threescore  when  I  lost  my  eyesight, 
and  I  thought  it  a  heavy  affliction.  It  would  be  a  deal 
worse  for  a  young  thing,  just  turned  her  one-and-twenty," 
continued  the  father,  at  once  uttering  in  plain  English  the 
utmost  extent  of  their  fears,  in  the  simple  straightforward 
manner  common  among  the  poor  people,  but  which  would 
sound  harsh  and  unfeeling  to  the  sensibilities  of  the  more 
refined. 

"  I  only  hope  I  may  be  able  to  bear  my  trials  as  well 
as  you  do,  father,  if  1  am  to  be  so  afflicted,"  exclaimed 
Susan,  as  she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears,  rendered  the 
more  violent  by  her  having  previously  attempted  to 
control  herself 

"  Susan,  Susan,  you  must  not  take  on  so,"  said 
George,  anxious  to  sooth  her. 

"  You'll  do  your  poor  eyes  more  harm,  if  you  cry, 
Susan,"  said  her  mother,  "  than  the  doctor  can  cure 


20  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

in  a  week.      You  must  try  not  to  give  way,  Susan 
dear !" 

"  Cheer  up,  my  child,"  added  Nicholas,  "  We  do  not 
know  yet  what  the  doctor  will  say;  perhaps  it  may  not 
be  so  bad  after  all." 

Susan  dried  her  tears,  and  tried  to  be  composed  ; 
but  the  inmates  of  Nicholas  Foster's  humble  cottage 
retired  to  rest  that  night  with  sadness  in  their  hearts, 
which  was  not  destined  to  be  much  alleviated  by  the 
doctor's  visit  the  next  day.  He  talked  of  time  and 
patience,  of  a  cooling  diet  and  soothing  applications,  a 
tranquil  mind,  and  the  necessity  of  not  fretting, — of  all 
injunctions,  the  most  difficult  to  obey  I  He  gave  them 
hope  certainly  which,  though  not  enough  to  relieve 
Susan's  mind,  was  eagerly  caught  at  by  George,  and 
he  was  beginning  to  urge  that  it  could  do  no  harm,  if 
they  were  asked  in  church. 

"Not  yet,  George,  not  yet.  Wait  till  I  begin  to 
mend.  I  should  be  but  a  useless  wife  to  y(5u  at  present. 
I  have  given  up  the  thought  of  making  a  pretty  bride," 
she  continued  in  a  tone  almost  of  bitterness ;  "  but  I 
must  be  able  to  do  for  you,  and  to  keep  your  house 
tidy ;  so  there's  no  use  in  talking  about  being  asked  ia 
chgrch,  George." 

George  desisted,  for  her  manner  was  so  resolved  he 
felt  it  impossible  to  oppose  her. 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  21 


CHAPTER  III. 

E  I'aspettar  del  male  e  mal  peggiore 
Forse,  che  non  parrebbe  il  mal  presente. 

Tasso. 

Susan  was  a  good-hearted  girl,  but  she  had  a  high 
spirit.  She  had  a  generous  temper,  but  it  was  not 
always  under  control.  Of  all  qualities  a  sweet  temper 
is  perhaps  the  one  least  cultivated  in  the  lower  ranks 
of  life.  The  peculiar  disposition  is  not  watched  ;  care 
is  not  taken  to  distinguish  between  the  passionate  child, 
the  sulky,  the  obstinate,  and  the  timid.  The  children 
of  the  poor  are  allowed  a  latitude  of  speech  unknown 
among  the  higher  orders,  and  they  are  free  from  the 
salutary  restraint  imposed  by  what  is  termed  "com- 
pany." 

When  in  the  enjoyment  of  full  health  and  strength, 
the  ungoverned  temper  of  the  poor  is  one  of  their  most 
striking  faults,  while  their  resignation  under  affliction, 
whether  mental  or  bodily,  is  the  point  of  all  others  in 
which  the  rich  might  with  advantage  study  to  imitate 
them. 

Susan's  spirit  was  not  yet  tamed  by  affliction. 
There  were  moments  when  she  could  not  bear,  with- 
out impatience,  the  pain  her  eyes  occasioned  her,  and 
the  weight  of  care  which  oppressed  her  mind. 

It  was  towards  George  that  she  most  frequently 
evinced  any  signs  of  captiousness;  and  yet  it  was  on 
his  account  that  she  most  poignantly  felt  her  present 
affliction  and  her  future  prospects.  She  was  more  un- 
happy than  she  quite  ventured  to  own  to  herself,  or  to 
him  ;  more  apprehensive  of  what  might  be  the  result. 
She  feared  he  would  not  always  continue  to  be  as  kind 
as  he  now  was.     She  could  not  expect  it ;  and  she 


22  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

sometimes  received  his  simple  attentions  as  if  she  was 
more  surprised  than  touched  by  them. 

One  evening  he  brought  her  some  flowers  from  his 
father's  garden. 

"Well!  I  shall  be  able  to  smell,"  she  said,  "even 
when  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see ;  but  perhaps,  George, 
you  will  not  go  on  bringing  me  flowers  then  !  What 
beautiful  double  stocks  these  are  !  we  can't  get  any  to 
grow  like  these  in  our  little  bit  of  garden." 

"  I  raised  them  for  father  myself,  Susftn :  so  I  don't 
see  why  we  should  not  have  some,  just  as  fine,  and  finer, 
when  we  have  a  garden  of  our  own  1"  And  poor 
George  looked  pleased  at  her  praise  of  his  pet  flower. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  never  get  any  to  come  so  thick 
and  so  double  another  time, — even  if  you  should  try," 
answered  Susan,  despondingly ;  for  she  thought,  "  when 
could  she  hope  to  have  a  home  of  her  own  ?" 

"  And  do  you  think  I  shall  noL  try,  Susan,  to  make 
my  wife's  home  as  nice  as  my  father's  ?" 

"  Maybe  you  will, — and  I  may  not  be  there  to 
see  it." 

"  Why  Susan,  I  do  not  know  what  is  come  over 
you ;  there  is  no  pleasing  you.  I  thought  you  would 
[ike  my  flowers !" 

"  And  so  I  do,  George ;  and  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  them,"  she  continued  in  a  tone  of  gratitude 
almost  beyond  what  the  occasion  called  for.  Presently 
she  added,  in  a  sad,  low  voice,  "  You  are  very  good  to 
me,  very  good,  indeed." 

Just  at  this  moment  Nicholas  and  his  dame  were 
seen  approaching  the  garden  gate.  She  was  leading 
him  from  the  stile  over  which  he  loved  to  lean,  and  to 
feel  the  warm  sun  on  his  eyes,  and  turn  his  face  in  the 
direction  of  the  setting  orb.  Sarah  was  hobbling  back, 
guiding  the  blind  old  man,  whose  firmer  step  assisted  in 
supporting  her  suffering  frame.  George  opened  the 
cottage  door  to  admit  them,  and  the  slant  beams  of  the 
sun  glanced  through  the  opening  upon  poor  Susan's 
eyes. 

The  sudden  light  pained  her  j  and  although  she  had 


IME    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  23 

one  moment  before  reproached  herself  with  not  being 
sufficiently  grateful  for  the  kindness  shown  her,  she  ex- 
claimed, somewhat  pettishly,  "Don't  you  know,  George, 
how  it  hurts  my  eyes  to  have  the  light  glare  upon  them 
all  at  once?"  at  the  same  time  pushing  back  her  chair 
with  an  impatient  movement,  which  was  accounted  for, 
but  not  justified,  by  the  pain  which  she  suffered. 

The  sight  of  her  poor  blind  father,  and  of  his  meek 
expression  of  countenance,  recalled  her  to  herself.  She 
hastened  to  him  and  helped  him  to  his  chimney  nook, 
and  then  assisted  her  mother  to  her  usual  chair.  They 
each  thanked  her  in  a  kind  and  gentle  voice,  and  she 
felt  inwardly  rebuked  by  their  patience  and  their  sub- 
mission. 

George  had  stood  aloof,  awkward,  and  mortified. 
Slie  drew  near  him.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  George," 
she  murmured :  "  George,  I  do  not  know  what  is  come 
to  me  ;"  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"Never  fret,  Susan;  I  don't  mind.  'Tis  very  natu- 
ral, I  dare  say,  that  you  should  be  a  little  testy  or  so ; 
don't  cry,  your  mother  says  'tis  so  bad  for  you.  I  don't 
mind ;  though,  to  be  sure,  you  do  sometimes  hurt  my 
feelings  a  little."  Dame  Foster  thought  she  saw  him 
brush  off"  a  tear  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Susan?  Sure  you  and 
George  have  not  been  falling  out,  have  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no  !  not  a  bit  of  it,  dame  !" 

"George  is  vejy  good  to  me,  mother;  but  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  I  believe  sometimes  I  am  hard  to 
please;"  and  she  strove  to  smile. 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  girl,"  said  Nicholas,  "  trouble  is  hard 
to  bear  when  first  it  comes  ;  but  the  back  gets  used  to 
the  burden.  If  you  are  a  good  girl,  and  say  your 
prayers  as  should  be,  God  will  give  you  strength  to 
bear  what  it  is  his  pleasure  to  lay  upon  you.  Won't 
he,  dame  ?  I  am  sure  we  have  found  it  so.  He  is 
very  merciful ;  and  if  he  gives  us  trouble,  he  sends  us 
comfort  to  make  up  for  it.  If  it  has  pleased  him  to 
afflict  me  with  blindness,  he  has  given  me  a  good  wife 
— ay,  the  best  of  wives ;  and  if  she  is  afflicted  with  her 


24  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE* 

side,  poor  soul  !  why,  he  has  given  her,  and  me  too, 
dutiful  children;  and  children  who,  some  of  them,  are 
likely  to  do  very  well.  Tliere  are  our  two  boys,  though 
they  are  settled  in  distant  countries,  they  are  very  good 
to  us,  and  have  never  let  us  want  for  any  thing,  but 
have  kept  us  off  the  parish  as  yet;  and  that's  what  few 
people  can  say  for  their  sons.  If  we  do  but  look  the 
right  way  for  them,  we  shall  all  find  we  have  our  com- 
forts ;  though  we  may  not  be  so  sharp  to  find  them  out 
as  we  are  to  find  our  troubles." 

Among  Susan's  causes  of  uneasiness  there  was  one 
which  she  did  not  like  to  dwell  upon  to  her  parents. 
She  had  been  used  to  assist  towards  the  maintenance 
of  the  family,  by  taking  in  needlework.  She  had  now 
for  many  vi^eeks  been  obliged  to  give  up  her  occupa- 
tion ;  and  she  felt  that,  though  her  brothers  provided 
for  the  comfort  of  their  parents,  it  was  hard  upon  them 
to  have  a  helpless  sister  also  to  support. 

She  was  allowed  to  be  much  in  the  air  if  she  wore  a 
shade  over  her  eyes ;  and  she  frequently  made  use  of 
this  liberty  to  visit  an  old  neighbour,  who  had  long  been 
bedridden,  and  who  earned  herself  a  decent  livelihood 
by  knitting  stockings  for  the  poor,  and  muffettees  and 
handkerchiefs  for  the  gentry,  who  admired  the  intricate 
and  curious  stitches  with  which  she  adorned  her  work. 

Susan,  who  already  contemplated  the  probability  of 
being  eventually  condemned  to  blindness,  thought  it 
would  prove  useful  if,  while  she  still  retained  some  eye- 
sight, she  was  to  make  herself  acquainted  with  old 
Nelly's  art;  and,  accordingly,  she  applied  herself  dili- 
gently to  acquire  the  requisite  proficiency.  She  would 
sometimes  close  her  eyes  and  try  whether  she  could 
thus  accomplish  the  difficult  stitch ;  and,  then,  when 
she  opened  them  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  where 
lay  her  mistake,  she  would  sigh  to  think  the  time  might 
soon  arrive  when  the  darkness  would  be  eternal. 

vSusan's  visit  to  Nelly  Warner  had  a  considerable 
and  not  unfavourable  influence  upon  her  future  char- 
acter. 

The  old  woman  was  naturally  of  a  querulous  dispo- 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  25 

sition,  and  was  more  inclined  to  dwell  on  the  many  pri- 
vations to  which  her  complaint  condemned  her,  than  on 
the  superior  comforts  which  fell  to  her  lot  beyond  others 
who  were  equally  afflicted.  She  had  an  attentive  grand- 
daughter, who  was  devoted  to  her ;  and  she  was  not  in 
want  of  what  might  in  her  line  of  life  be  deemed  com- 
forts, for  the  neighbouring  gentry  showed  her  much 
kindness. 

Susan  could  noj;  but  compare  the  patient  endurance 
of  her  mother,  the  placid  submission  of  her  father,  with 
the  fretfulness  of  Nelly  Warner ;  and  when  she  an- 
swered her  complaints  with  such  arguments  for  resig- 
nation as  naturally  occurred  to  her  mind,  she  could  not 
but  apply  the  words  she  uttered  to  her  own  case. 

"So  you  are  come, at  last,  Susan,"  said  old  Nelly, in 
a  reproachful  tone ;  "  I  have  been  expecting  you  this 
half-hour.  The  church  clock  has  gone  three,  I  do  not 
know  how  long.  Young  people  should  not  keep  old 
folks  waiting,  more  especially  when  they  want  them  to 
do  them  a  kindness." 

"It  is  only  ten  minutes  past  three,  Nelly;  I  looked 
as  I  came  by;  but  I  am  sorry  I  was  not  quite  to  my 
time.  The  bright  sun  dazzled  my  eyes,  and  I  went 
back  to  get  mother  to  alter  my  green  shade." 

"Ah  I  young  folks  always  have  some  excuse  or  an- 
other which  they  think  mighty  good  themselves.  It 
fidgets  a  poor  body  like  me  to  lie  wondering,  and  ex- 
pecting, and  listening  to  hear  the  door  open  I  When 
one  is  helpless  and  ailing,  as  I  am,  folks  should  take 
care  not  to  worry  one.  It  is  bad  enough  to  bear  one's 
own  miseries.  Here  I  lie,  and  what  pleasure  have  I 
from  one  week's  end  to  another  ?" 

"  liittle  enough  of  pleasure,  indeed,  dear  Nelly,  ex- 
cept the  pleasure  of  doing  a  kindness  by  me,"  said 
Susan,  as  she  took  out  her  knitting-needles.  "  Then 
you  have  little  Patty  to  help  you,  and  to  bring  you  all 
you  want,  and  she  is  a  good  child.  Some  people, 
Nelly,  have  not  the  comfort  of  such  a  good  little  girl 
to  attend  to  them :  sure  you  have  much  to  be  grateful 
for." 

VOL.  II. — C 


26  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

"  I  can't  tell  what  I  have  to  be  grateful  for.  There's 
JMaster  Thompson,  he  is  two  years  older  than  I  am, 
and  he  is  hearty  and  well,  and  i^oes  to  his  work  regu- 
larly, and  earns  as  much  as  a  young  man.  And  there's 
.my  own  sister  Pratt,  why  she's  ten  years  older  than  I 
am,  and  she  can  walk  to  market." 

"  Oh,  but,  Nelly,  the  way  to  be  contented  is  to  com- 
pare our  condition  with  those  who  are  worse  oft'  than 
ourselves.  You  want  for  nothing;  you  are  able  to 
earn  a  good  deal  yourself.  Now,  I  can't  earn  any 
thing  yet,"  she  added  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  and  peo- 
ple are  very  good  to  you." 

"  They  like  my  warm  muflettees  well  enough  ;  but 
I  need  not  thank  them,  but  myself,  for  that." 

Susan  felt  shocked  at  Nelly's  ill-temper  and  ingrati- 
tude, and  she  thought  what  a  hard  task  it  must  be  for 
Patty  to  study  the  humours  of  such  a  discontented  old 
woman. 

She  remembered  how  kind  her  mother  had  always 
been  to  her ;  she  remembered  how  patiently  George 
had  borne  with  her ;  and  she  resolved  she  would  not 
put  him  to  such  trials  any  more. 

The  uncertainty  in  which  she  remained  concerning 
her  future  fate  sometimes  appeared  to  her  harder  to 
bear  than  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  would  be,  and  she 
made  up  her  mind  she  would  some  day  ask  the  doctor 
what  was  his  real  opinion  of  her  case.  But  many  a 
visit  passed  over  v^ithout  her  summoning  the  requisite 
courage.  If  he  should  destroy  all  the  hopes  she  still 
indulged,  what  should  she  do  ?  How  ought  she  to  con- 
duct herself  towards  George  ?  Could  she  wish  him  to 
be  encumbered  with  a  blind  wife  ? 

While  all  these  contending  feelings  were  working  in 
her  mind,  she  found  it  difficult  to  be  always  gentle  and 
placid,  and  yet  she  was  ashamed  before  her  good  re- 
signed parents  to  give  way  to  impatience.  They 
never  tutored  her,  they  never  gave  her  advice  ;  but, 

"  Example  more  than  precept  weighs," 

and  their  whole  lives  were  one  continued  moral  lesson.  , 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  27 

Susan  was  one  day  sitting  at  home,  with  her  back 
towards  the  light,  diHgenlly  plying  her  long  needles, 
when  she  suddenly  addressed  her  mother:  "Mother, 
do  you  think.  I  shall  ever  get  well?" 

"There's  no  saying,  my  dear  Susan  ;  such  things  are 
in  the  hands  of  Providence  1" 

"  Mother,  has  the  doctor  ever  told  you  any  thing  ?" 
she  asked,  with  a  great  effort. 

"  No,  my  child,  he  has  never  said  any  thing  for  cer- 
tain :  but  how  do  you  feel  your  eyes  yourself  V 

"  No  better,  mother,  no  better ;  I  don't  think  they  will 
last  long,  and  that's  the  truth  of  it,"  she  said,  relieved  by 
giving  utterance  to  what  had  been  so  long  preying  on 
her  mind. 

*'  My  poor  Susan  !  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  you, 
and  bear  you  up  under  this  affliction  ! — and  he  will,  my 
child, — depend  upon  it,  he  will.  But  it  goes  harder 
with  me,  Susan,  to  see  you  so,  than  it  has  to  bear  all  the 
other  troubles  I  have  ever  been  visited  with." 

"  Well,  mother,  don't  fret ;  we  will  hope,"  said  Susan, 
alarmed  herself  at  the  alarm  she  had  excited  in  her 
mother's  bosom,  and  half  disappointed  at  not  meeting 
with  more  reassurement ;  but  Sarah  had  long  perceived 
with  grief  that  her  daughter  made  no  progress  towards 
amendment,  and  the  melancholy  truth  had  gradually 
forced  itself  upon  her  mind. 

The  doctor  called  one  day  when  the  dame  was  lead- 
ing her  good  man  to  his  usual  stile,  and  Susan  was  there- 
fore alone.  Slie  determined  to  put  the  question  to  him, 
and  to  be  assured  whether  she  ought  or  ought  not  to 
relinquish  all  hope.  Having  thus  armed  herself  with 
resolution  to  hear  the  worst,  slie  framed  her  question 
with  such  apparent  composure,  and  as  if  she  entertained 
so  little  expectation  of  recovery,  that  the  doctor  thought 
there  was  no  occasion  to  deceive  her,  and  did  not 
attempt  to  deny  that  her  fears  were  only  too  well 
grounded.  She  dropped  him  a  respectful  courtesy,  and 
only  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir."  He  praised  her  for  her 
strength  of  mind,  advised  her  to  seek  fortitude  whence 
alone  it  was  to  be  found,  and  recommended  her  being 


28  THE   HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

as  much  as  possible  in  the  open  air,  that  her  general 
health  might  not  sufler. 

When  he  had  taken  his  leave — when  poor  Susan 
found  herself  quite  alone — then  all  her  strength  of  mind 
forsook  her.  She  relieved  her  bursting  heart  by  floods 
of  tears,  and  had  scarcely  recovered  any  composure 
when  her  father  and  mother  returned  from  their  evening 
stroll  to  the  neighbouring  stile.  That  night  Susan  could 
not  sleep,  but  she  pondered  deeply  on  the  future. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth 
Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  slighted  good. 
Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel, 
And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 

COWPEK. 

After  her  conversation  with  the  doctor,  Susan  ap- 
plied herself  more  diligently  than  ever  to  her  knitting, 
and  succeeded  in  acquiring  such  dexterity  that  she  nearly 
equalled  her  mistress.  She  took  every  opportunity  of 
walking  in  the  fields,  for  she  thought  she  should  like  to 
see  the  beautiful  face  of  nature  as  long  as  it  was  per- 
mitted her  to  do  so.  George  found  that  all  peevishness 
had  disappeared ;  his  kindnesses  were  received  with 
gratitude,  and  any  little  omission  on  his  part  did  not 
seem  to  be  perceived.  The  days  had  become  so  much 
shorter  that  she  could  no  longer  take  a  walk  with  him 
each  evening  when  he  returned  from  work,  but  on  Sun- 
days they  still  wasidered  through  the  fields  together.  He 
one  day  reujarked  how  long  the  oaks  had  kept  their 
leaves  this  year. 

"  I  can  see  that  the  woods  look  thick,"  she  replied ; 
"  but  I  cannot  well  distinguish  their  colour.  However, 
I  am  glad  the  leaves  last  late  this  autumn,  for  I  shall 
never  see  them  again ;  before  spring  I  shall  be  quite 


TUE    HAMPSlIIIiE    COTTAGE. 


29 


(lark,  George.  I  shall  be  very  sorry  not  to  see  the 
young  lambs :  I  used  to  like  to  watch  them  skip  about 
upon  the  headlands  when  the  sun  shone  out  on  a  spring 
morning;  and  I  shall  be  sorry  not  to  see  the  primroses 
in  the  dell  by  Fairmead  shaw.  Oh  dear !  I  shall  tie 
up  no  more  bunches  of  violets  in  Oldash  lane,  where 
the  banks  are  always  so  blue  with  them  !  I  did  not  know 
at  the  time  how  much  I  enjoyed  all  those  sights.  And 
the  pretty  young  shoots  of  the  sallow,  that  we  used  to 
gather  for  Palm  Sunday  I  Oh  !  we  are  giddy,  thought- 
less creatures,  George,  and  do  not  half  value  the  com- 
mon blessings  of  life  while  we  have  them.  I  think 
sometimes  of  such  things  till  my  heart  seems  ready  to 
burst ;  and  then  I  remember  poor  father,  how  patient 
and  contented  he  is ;  and  I  know  how  mother  bears  all 
her  pains,  and  I  remember  that  I  have  not  much  pain  to 
bear;  for  I  do  not  sutler  now,  except,  to  be  sure,  in  my 
poor  mind.  I  feel  a  great  deal  sometimes,  George, — 
more  than  I  like  to  talk  about ;  and  I  think  a  great  deal ; 
and  the  time  must  come  when  you  must  think  too.  I 
know  this  is  not  the  way  for  a  young  man  to  wear  away 
his  life ;  I  know  it  all,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  hold  you 
to  your  word  ;  only,  as  long  as  1  can  walk  about  and  see 
the  old  places  at  all,  I  should  like  to  walk  with  you,  and 
see  them  with  you," 

"  Oh  Susan,  you  go  near  to  break  my  heart  when  you 
talk  so  beautifully.  But  you  know  I  wanted  long  ago 
that  we  should  be  married,  and  you  know  I  am  ready  to 
work  night  and  day  to  keep  you  ;  and  there  will  be  Mas- 
ter Mumford's  house  at  liberty  by  spring.  I  am  ready 
and  willing  to  do  my  best  for  you." 

"  No,  George,  it  won't  do ;  such  a  poor  helpless  crea- 
ture as  I  shall  be  by  the  spring  must  not  think  of  taking 
care  of  a  family.  Hark  how  that  robin  is  singing ! 
There  is  one  comfort:  I  shall  be  able  to  hear  the  birds 
sing,  and  I  shall  know  when  the  spring  comes  by  hear- 
ing them  ;  and  listening  to  their  songs  will  put  me  in 
mind  of  all  the  pretty  sights  there  are  in  spring  time. 
I  will  tell  you  what  is  worst  of  all,  George, — that  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  see  the  faces  of  those  I  love  again.     I 

c  2 


30  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

cannot  justly  discern  the  favour  of  any  one  now  ;  that 
is  what  I  miss  most.  I  cannot  be  sure  now  when  you 
look  at  me,  except  by  a  kind  of  guess.  Oh,  George ! 
sometimes  I  think  how  vain  and  foolish  1  used  to  be,  and 
how  much  I  prided  myself  upon  looking  pretty  of  a  Sun- 
day when  I  thought  1  should  meet  you,  and  it  all  seems 
to  me  now  to  have  been  such  vanity :  and  1  am  sorry 
now  1  did  not  read  my  Bible  more  when  I  could  read. 
It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me  to  have  more  texts  by  heart, 
to  repeat  to  myself  when  1  feel  as  sad  as  I  often  do." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  passed  under  a 
large  holly  which  grew  on  the  steep  bank  of  the  road. 
"  Is  not  that  the  old  holly  from  which  we  used  to  gather 
the  branches  to  stick  in  our  windows  at  Christmas  ?  I 
think  it  looks  black  against  the  sky." 

"Yes,  dear  Susan,  that  is  the  very  holly." 

"  Are  there  many  red  berries  upon  it  this  autumn  ?" 

"  Yes,  there's  quite  a  sight  of  berries." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  them  ! — but  that  can't  be.  As  I 
was  saying,  George,  about  the  Bible, — be  sure  you  read 
a  chapter  every  Sunday  :  it  will  do  you  good  :  as  poor 
Mr.  Sandford  used  to  say,  the  Bible  is  the  poor  man's 
best  friend.  Poor  Mr.  Sandford !  I  am  sorry  he  is  so 
bad.  It  would  have  been  a  good  thing  for  me  if  he  had 
been  able  to  go  about  as  usual,  and  to  talk  to  me,  and 
give  me  good  advice.  Perhaps  I  should  never  have  been 
so  pettish  as  I  was  for  a  little  while ;  but  I  have  got  over 
that  now.  He  will  be  very  much  missed  in  the  parish 
when  he  is  gone  ;  but  he  is  of  great  age,  and  we  must  all 
go  when  our  time  comes.  The  place  won't  seem  like 
itself  when  he  is  in  his  grave,  and  'Squire  Mov^bray  in 
foreign  parts ;  for  they  say  he  is  not  coming  back,  but  is 
going  somewhere  for  Miss  Fanny's  health,  and  to  finish 
the  young  ladies'  education,  now  Miss  Alice  is  married. 
Poor  Miss  Alice  1  To  be  sure,  how  well  I  remember 
her  wedding !  and  truly  enough  did  I  say  I  should  never 
spend  so  happy  a  day  again  ;  but  I  did  not  think  so  when 
I  said  it.  I  thought  1  should  spend  many  and  many 
much  happier  days  when  I  was  married  to  you,  George, 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  31 

for  all  I  was  so  flighty  that  evening."  And  Susan  smiled, 
and  then  sighed  to  tliink  how  light-hearted  she  had  been. 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  happy  day  !"  said  George  ;  and  he 
shook  his  head  sorrowfully  as  he  led  poor  Susan  home 
to  her  father's  cottage. 

Each  succeeding  week  saw  Susan's  blindness  gradu- 
ally increase  ;  and  as  her  sight  became  more  and  more 
dim,  she  became  more  than  ever  gentle  and  uncomplain- 
ing. Of  all  the  visitations  with  which  human  nature  is 
afflicted,  none  assuredly  has  such  a  tendency  to  calm,  to 
purify,  and  to  refine  the  heart,  as  blindness.  The  ab- 
sence of  all  external  objects  to  distract  the  attention, 
forces  the  soul  to  look  back  into  jtself,  to  subdue  its  pas- 
sions, to  control  its  emotions,  to  chasten  all  its  feelings. 
It  is  seldonl^that  the  countenance  of  a  blind  person  does 
not  bear  the  stamp  of  a  meek  and  resigned  spirit  within. 

Old  Mr.  Sandford  died,  and  was  replaced  by  a  worthy 
commonplace  olergymafe,  who  did  the  duty  in  a  respect- 
able commonplace  manner;  who  attended  the  schools, 
and  visited  the  pooiij^eople,  and  was  sorry  for  the  blind 
young  woman  ;  but,  not  having  known  her  previously, 
took  no  particular  interest  in  her  case.  Susan  and  her 
father  lamented  the  death  of  Mr.  Sandford.  To  them 
the  loss  of  the  voice  to  which 'they  had  been  accustomed 
was  a  deprivation  far  greater  than  to  others,  for  to  them 
a  voice  was  every  thing. 

Susan  vVas  one  day  seated,  at  her  usual  hour,  with  her 
knitting"  f)y  Nelly's  side,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Otley  paid 
the  old  woman  a  visit. 

"Ah  1"  said  Nelly,"  I  warrant  me,  they  are  coming  for 
some  job  of  their  own.  It's  seldom  any  one  opens  my 
door  to  keep  me  company,  or  to  cheer  my  lonesome 
days:  that's  the  way  of  the  world, — every  one  for  him- 
self." Then  addressing  Mrs.  Otley  as  she  entered : 
"  Well,  ma'am,  and  what  queer  ncw-fingled  piece  of 
work  do  you  want  to  set  me  about  now  ?" 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  new  pattern,  Nelly,"  replied 
the  good-humoured  Mrs.  Otley ;  "  these  knit  boa^'afe 
quite  the  fashion  at  Turnholme  ;  and  I  thought  if  you 


32  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

got  some  done  before  they  grow  common,  it  would  be 
such  a  good  thing  for  you  !'' 

"  And  can  you  tell  me  how  I  am  to  set  about  making 
such  an  out-of-the-way  thing  as  this  ?"  said  Nelly,  as  she 
held  up  the  boa  with  a  disdainful  air. 

"  No,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  to  do  it ;  but  you  are  so 
clever  at  such  matters,  I  thought  you  would  know 
directly." 

"  Perhaps  I  may  find  out,  as  there  are  few  stitches  I 
do  not  know,"  replied  Nelly,  her  temper  a  little  soothed 
through  the  medium  of  her  vanity  ;  "  but  when  1  have 
made  them,  I  do  not  see  who  there  is  to  buy  them,  now 
Mrs.  Mowbray  and  her  family  are  gone." 

"  Oh  !  in  the  first  place,  1  will  take  one  :  and  then  Miss 
Mincing  will  be  glad  to  take  any  number,  if  you  let  her 
have  them  a  trifle  under  the  usual  price." 

Nelly  nodded,  with  a  half- pleased,  half-cunning  air,  as 
if  she  had  proved  right,  and  Mrs.  Otle^;  had  her  own 
ends  to  answer  in  her  apparent  good-nature.  "  And,  per- 
haps," continued  Mrs.  Olley, "the  Mowbrays  may  be  at 
home  before  next  winter." 

"  No,"  said  Nelly,  "  not  a  bit  of  it.  That's  all  a  pre- 
tence about  the  young  ladies'  education.  They  have 
had  some  losses  out  there  away  in  them  sugar  mines, 
and  they  won't  be  at  home  these  two  years,"  replied 
Nelly,  with  the  dogmatical  air  of  one  whose  superior 
inforniation  could  not  be  doubted. 

"  That's  sad  news,  IMrs.  Nelly,"  interposed  Mr.  Otley ; 
<'  'tis  a  wonder^S^-.  Williams  did  not  say  a  word  about 
it  yesterday,  whSi  I  called  about  stocking  up  that 
hedge." 

"  The  news  only  came  this  morning ;  but  I  believe 
you  will  find  it's  true  enough  ;  though  people  think  an 
old  woman  can  know  nothing." 

"  I'm  loath  to  credit  such  bad  news  about  such  good 
people,"  answered  Mr.  Otley. 

"  They  may  be  good,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  con- 
trary ;  but  I  am  sure  it  is  little  enough  I  have  profited 
by  their  goodness." 
*  "  Oh,  Nelly  !"  exclaimed  Susan,  "  did  not  they  keep. 


THE   HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE.  33 

you  always  in  employment ;  and  if  you  had  nothing  else 
to  do,  did  they  not  bid  you  always  be  knitting  stockings 
for  them,  which  they  afterward  gave  to  the  poor  ?" 

"  And  much  good  that  did  me !  I  was  none  the 
warmer.  They  paid  me  for  my  work,  sure  enough ; 
and  what  thanks  do  I  owe  them  for  that  ?  It  would  be 
a  pretty  thing  indeed,  if  gentlefolks  ordered  goods  of 
poor  people,  and  then  cheated  them  out  of  their  money." 

"  Oh,  Nelly  !"  cried  Susan,  and  she  longed  to  add, 
'  how  ungrateful !'  but  she  remembered  she  was  old  and 
sick,  and  she  restrained  herself 

"  I  always  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  I  always 
thought  the  'squire  would  run  himself  into  debt  with  the 
warm  house  he  kept,  and  his  dances  on  the  green  to 
giddy  boys  and  girls."  Susan  sighed.  "  And  then  the 
grand  company  that  visited  at  the  Park !  I  am  sure  it 
has  kept  me  awake  many  a  night  to  hear  the  carriages 
rolling  by  after  a  dinner-party.  It  won't  do  to  burn  the 
candle  at  both  ends.  I  have  always  said  so  ;  but  nobody 
minds  me." 

"I  am  sure,  Nelly,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Otley,  "Mr. 
Mowbray  saw  no  more  company  than  was  proper  and 
becoming  for  a  gentleman  of  his  birth  and  connections  ; 
and  it  would  have  been  a  sin  and  a  shame  if  he  had  let 
his  daughters  mope  at  home  without  allowing  them  to  see 
a  little  of  the  world ;  and  as  for  his  losses  in  his  West 
India  property,  he  could  not  foresee  that  his  crop  of 
sugarcanes  would  fail,  or  that  a  hurricane  would  ruin  his 
plantations." 

"  1  know  nothing  about  sugarcanes,  nor  hurricanes, 
not  I ;  but  I  know  that  if  they  are  things  that  pay  one 
year,  and  don't  pay  the  next,  you  should  reckon  accord- 
ingly, and  not  live  as  if  sugar  mines  paid  every  year  as 
regular  as  sheep  or  corn." 

"  Not  sugar  mines,  Nelly.  Sugar  grows  in  planta- 
tions." 

"  Sugar  mines,  or  salt  mines,  it  is  all  one  to  me  ;  that's 
no  business  of  mine,"  replied  Nelly,  doggedly,  "  and  it 
makes  little  difference  to  me.  If  them  losses  out  there 
away  hinder  the  'squire's  family  from  coming  home,  and 


34  THE   HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE. 

I  have  no  regular  sale  for  my  stockings,  it  matters  little 
what  keeps  them  in  Ibreign  parts." 

"  Well,  JMrs.  Nelly,"  said  Mr.  Olley,  "  you  are  not  the 
only  person  who  will  miss  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mowbray.  All 
who  are  willing  to  work  will  wish  for  the  'squire  back 
again  ;  and  all  who  are  sick,  or  sorry,  will  miss  Mrs. 
Mowbray's  kind  words,  and  kind  deeds;  and  I  am  sure 
I  shall  miss  those  sweet  young  ladies,  with  their  smiling 
faces,  and  their  affable  manners,  running  about  my  yard, 
and  playing  with  the  dogs,  and  the  cats,  and  the  calves, 
and  all  the  dumb  animals." 

"  And  I  am  sure  I  shall  miss  Mr.  Mowbray's  elegant 
manners  and  agreeable  conversation,  though  1  own  it 
struck  me  there  was  something  rather  high  about  Mrs. 
Mowbray's  ways,  though  she  was  such  a  dowdy  in  her 
dress.  Well,  Nelly,  you  do  not  seem  to  like  the  idea 
of  knitting  boas,  so  1  will  take  away  the  pattern." 

"  And  if  I  don't  get  employment  from  Miss  Mincing, 
who  am  I  to  look  to  now  ? — but  if  you  are  against  leaving 
it  with  me  for  a  day  or  two,  why  I  don't  viish  to  be 
beholden  to  anybody." 

"  I  borrowed  it  on  purpose  of  Mrs.  Knotaway  ;  and  if 
you  succeed  in  making  them,  1  shall  be  very  glad  to  buy 
one,"  added  Mrs.  Otley,  as  she  took  her  leave. 

Almost  before  the  door  was  closed,  "  There,"  said 
Nelly,  "  I  told  you  how  it  was.  She  thinks  she  can  get 
her  flaunting  boa  a  trifle  cheaper  than  if  she  bought  it  at 
Miss  Mincing's.  1  know  her  well  enough.  People  think 
I  can't  see  through  them,  because  1  am  old  and  helpless ; 
but  I  have  not  lost  my  senses." 

"  Indeed,  Nelly,"  said  Susan,  "  Mrs.  Olley  ordered  one 
out  of  good-nature." 

"  And  do  you  think,  if  my  work  was  dearer  than  the 
shop  price,  she  would  think  so  much  of  being  good- 
natured  ?" 

"  Oh,  Nelly  !  we  should  not  be  looking  out  for  bad 
motives  to  kind  actions.  It  will  be  a  great  advantage  to 
5^ou  to  find  a  market  for  your  goods  at  Miss  Mincing's, 
and  1  am  sure  Mrs.  Otley  meant  to  do  you  a  service  ;  and 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  35 

if  it  had  not  been  for  your  good,  Mr.  Otley  would  never 
have  let  her  propose  it." 

"  Mr.  Otley,  indeed  ! — he  just  lets  his  flighty  wife  take 
her  own  way." 

"  He  is  very  kind  ;  but  my  cousin,  Sophy  Foster,  who 
lived  with  them  half  a  year,  says  he  can  be  firm  enough 
when  there  is  need  for  it,  and  that  he  rules  in  all  great 
things,  though  he  does  not  like  to  be  jarring  about 
trifles." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Susan,  you  are  always  contra- 
dicting one.  You  always  have  something  to  say  in 
defence  of  everybody.  It  is  a  very  disagreeable  trick  in 
a  young  woman  to  be  contradicting  her  elders." 

Tlie  spring  had  now  stolen  on ;  Master  Mumford's 
house  was  free ;  and  Susan  thought  it  her  duty  to  tell 
George  that  she  released  him  from  his  engagement.  She 
was  quite  blind.  No  hope  was  held  out  to  her  of  re- 
covery. Her  becoming  the  wife  of  a  poor  man,  the 
mother  of  a  poor  man's  children,  was  absolutely  out  of 
the  question.  She  took  the  opportunity  one  day,  when 
her  father  and  mother  were  both  present,  to  say  to  him, 
"  The  time  is  come,  George,  when  I  must  give  you  up. 
You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  I  shall  feel  your 
goodness  as  long  as  1  live  ;  but  I  cannot  make  you  such  a 
wife  as  a  poor  man  ought  to  have  :  and  now,  George, 
here,  before  my  father  and  mother,  I  give  you  back  your 
word.  The  house  next  door  is  free,  and  you  must  give 
the  'squire's  steward  your  answer  ;  and  so  you  had  better 
go  to  Mr.  Williams  and  give  it  up  at  once.  I  can  never 
live  there  with  you  ;  and  if — if  you  should — if  you  should 
marry  another  girl,  George,''  she  continued  resolutely, 
though  with  a  choking  voice,  "  I  could  not  bear  to  have 
her  live  there — no  more  could  you,  I  am  sure  you  could 
not ;  so  you  had  better  go  to  the  'squire's  steward  and  tell 
him  how  it  is  !"  She  stopped,  exhausted  with  the  effort 
she  had  made. 

George  stood  by,  grieved,  distressed,  uncertain  how  to 
act,  or  what  to  say.  He  loved  Susan  dearly,  as  dearly 
as  ever ;  but  it  was  true,  she  could  not  take  care  of  a 
poor  man's  house.     He  was  but  a  poor  labourer ;  it  was 


36  THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 

impossible  he  should  earn  enough  to  support  her,  and  a 
person  to  do  for  her  and  the  family  they  might  have.  It 
would  be  bringing  her  into  a  state  of  hopeless  poverty 
and  distress.  He  had  no  arguments  to  adduce,  and  yet 
he  could  not  bear  to  break  off  the  engagement.  "  What 
is  to  be  done,  dame  ?"  at  length  he  said,  with  the  tears  in 
his  eyes.  "  I  love  Susan,  there,  as  dearly  as  ever  I  did, 
and  I  can't  bear  the  thoughts  of  giving  her  up  ;  and  yet  I 
have  nothing  to  say  against  the  reasons  she  has  been 
bringing  up  against  me.  I  am  fairly  puzzled  what  to  do," 
he  continued,  rubbing  his  forehead.  "  I  would  not  mind, 
if  I  thought  I  could  keep  her  creditably  ;  but  if  she  and 
her  children  were  to  be  brought  to  want,  anci  I  not  able 
to  earn  a  decent  maintenance  for  them,  why,  I  do  think 
that  would  be  worst  of  all." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  dear  George,  but  what 
I  tell  you.  We  must  break  off  with  one  another,  and  you 
must  try  to  forget  by-gone  days :  that  will  soon  be  easy 
enough  for  you.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  see  there  is  any 
need  for  me  to  try  to  forget,  fori  may  as  well  think  over 
every  thing  that  is  pleasant ;  and  it  will  always  be  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  think  how  kind  you  have  been  to  me, 
and  how  true  you  have  been  to  me !"  and  she  held  out 
her  hand  in  the  direction  where  he  stood,  moving  it 
slowly  towards  him  as  blind  people  do.  He  took  her 
hand ;  he  grasped  it  firmly ;  he  pressed  it  between  his 
own  hard  palms  ;  occasionally  patting  it,  in  silence,  for 
some  minutes,  till,  at  length,  he  let  it  fall ;  and  dropping 
his  head  upon  the  deal  dresser,  he  burst  into  an  agony  of 
uncontrollable  sobs. 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

These  orbs,  that  heaven's  gay  light  no  longer  know, 

JVor  meet  with  kindred  beam  affection's  eye 

(Long,  long  denied  each  grateful  ministry!) 
Still  own  the  tear  that  flows  for  others'  wo  ! 

Unpublished  Poems. 

Susan  sat  dissolved  in  silent  tears.  The  dame  hud 
clasped  her  hands  in  prayer.  Old  Nicholas's  head  rested 
on  his  staff,  while  tears  also  rolled  from  his  sightless  eyes. 
It  is  not  a  new  remark,  but  it  is  always  a  touching  reflec- 
tion, that  eyes  which  have  long  forgotten  to  minister 
to  pleasurable  objects,  should  still  retain  the  faculty  of 
weeping. 

Few  more  words  were  spoken  that  evening  by  t!ie 
party  assembled  in  Master  Foster's  house.  It  was 
necessary  that  George  Wells  should  decide,  whether  he 
should  take  the  neighbouring  cottage.  There  was  no 
alternative,  and  he  was  obliged  to  give  it  up.  But  he 
still  continued  to  visit  Susan. 

The  summer  came  on,  and  he  often  led  her  carefully 
forth  to  walk  in  their  accustomed  paths.  He  tliought  in 
his  heart  that  he  should  never  marry,  and  he  was  sure  he 
could  never  like  any  girl  as  well  as  iiiis  Susan.  He  some- 
times told  her  so,  and  she  gladly  believed  him  ;  and  she 
found  herself,  when  thus  convinced  of  his  continued  affec- 
tion, less  unhappy  than  she  had  imagined  it  possible  to  be 
under  her  melancholy  deprivation.  Her  skill  in  knitting 
almost  exceeded  that  of  her  old  mistress ;  and  although 
she  could  not  earn  as  much  as  she  formerly  had  by  needle- 
work, still  the  farmers'  wives  patronised  her ;  some  of 
the  gentry  in  the  nearest  country  town  bought  her  muf- 
fettees  as  fast  as  she  could  make  them  ;  and  she  was  able 
to  assist  her  parents  in  some  degree.  The  household 
cares  fell  heavier  on  old  Sarah,  but  she  had  a  willing 
spirit,  and  grudged  no  labour  for  those  she  loved. 

VOL.  n. — u 


38 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 


One  of  Susan's  most  constant  customers  for  her  worsted 
manufactures  was  Mrs.  Otiey,  who  thought,  in  the  absence 
of  the  Mowbrays,  it  was  incumbent  upon  her  to  patronise 
their  favourites.  Though  her  husband  rented  but  a  small 
farm,  not  exceeding  a  hundred  acres,  she  was  not,  in  her 
own  estimation,  a  personage  of  small  importance.  She 
was  possessed  of  that  desire  of  aping  her  betters  which 
is  the  misfortune  of  many  in  her  condition. 

Because  a  man  with  a  capital  of  ten  or  twelve  thousand 
pounds  chooses  to  invest  that  capital  in  a  large  farm,  and 
consequently  lives  himself  and  brings  up  his  family  as  he 
would  be  entitled  to  do  if  the  same  fortune  was  invested 
in  any  other  speculation  or  profession,  why  should  the 
small  farmer,  who  can  barely  stock  his  forty  or  fifty  acres, 
and  by  the  utmost  industry  ought  not  to  expect  a  profit 
much  beyond  the  earnings  of  a  good  labourer,  think  him- 
self called  upon  to  emulate  his  richer  neighbour?  Like 
him,  he  keeps  his  greyhounds  to  go  coursing,  or  his  nag 
to  ride  hunting ;  while  his  wife  and  daughters  appear  at 
church  attired  in  the  extreme  of  the  fashion,  and  at  home 
display  in  their  best  parlour  the  elegancies  of  a  drawing- 
room  ;  such  as  diminutive  cupids  bearing  gigantic  candle- 
sticks, j)^t^i^  ohjets  on  a  small  table,  a  flower-glass  con- 
taining an  artificial  bouquet,  and  not  unfrequently  a  piano- 
forte. Farmer  Otley  himself  was  not  one  to  whom  these 
remarks  were  applicable,  but  he  had  married  a  woman 
who  was  the  very  type  of  a  fashionable  farmeress.  She 
had  received  a  boarding-school  education,  could  play  on 
the  pianoforte,  spoke  French,  wrote  a  delicate  hand  with 
a  steel  pen,  embroidered  muslin,  was  really  a  pretty  and 
not  a  vulgar-looking  woman,  and  having  brought  him  a 
decent  fortune,  felt  herself  entitled  to  be  as  refined  as 
books  and  backboards  could  make  her. 

She  had  been  struck  by  Mr.  Otley's  personal  beauty, 
and  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  as  being  more  fitted  by 
his  appearance  to  enact  the  hero  than  any  one  else  with 
whom  she  associated.  He  was  certainly  a  singularly 
handsome  man  ;  and  although  (after  marriage)  she  some- 
times reproved  him  for  allowing  his  voice  to  go  beyond 
what  she  thought  the  true  pitch  of  romance,  and  his  laugh 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  39 

to  become  too  heart}',  she  consoled  herself  by  finding 
many  examples  in  novels  and  poems,  where  strength, 
manliness,  and  courage  are  the  re([uisite  attributes  of  the 
lover,  and  the  delicacy  and  refinement  are  only  indis- 
pensable in  the  lady-love. 

When  she  married  him,  she  imagined  all  farmers  must 
move  in  the  same  sphere  of  gentility  ;  and  as  Mr.  Glover, 
who  rented  and  cultivated  highly  a  thousand  acres  in  her 
native  parish,  drove  his  wife  and  daughters  to  church  in 
a  phaeton  with  two  pretty  ponies  ;  as  the  Misses  Glover 
were  dressed  as  well,  or  nearly  as  well,  as  the  Ladies 
Larkington ;  as  Mrs.  Glover  frequently  dined  with  the 
clergyman's  wife,  and  Mr.  Glover  occasionally  at  Lark- 
ington Hall,  she  concluded  that  when  she  also  was  united 
to  a  farmer,  Mrs.  Otiey  would  be  as  great  and  as  genteel 
a  personage  as  Mrs.  Glover. 

Much  has  been  said  and  much  has  been  written,  both 
against  the  farmers  of  the  present  day  and  in  their  de- 
fence. Surely,  the  condemnation  and  the  approbation 
have  both  been  too  general.  It  is  often  urged  that  all 
the  distress  among  that  class  of  people  is  owing  to  their 
altered  notions,  their  finery,  and  their  ambition.  It  has 
also  been  urged,  with  truth,  that  there  is  no  reason  why  a 
large  capitalist,  who  invests  his  money  in  agricultural 
speculations,  should  be  condemned  to  eat  bread  and 
cheese,  and  to  wear  a  smock-frock  ;  and  his  wife  to  churn, 
bake,  and  feed  her  chickens. 

The  fault  appears  to  be  that  sufficient  regard  is  not 
paid  to  the  difference  of  capital  requisite  for  a  large  and 
a  small  farm.  The  small  shopkeeper  in  a  narrow  alley 
does  not  feel  himself  called  upon  to  make  the  same 
appearance,  or  to  indulge  in  the  same  luxuries,  as  the 
proprietor  of  one  of  the  brilliant  magazines  in  Regent- 
street  or  Bond-street ;  but  the  small  farmer  strives  to 
vie  with  the  large  one,  and  would  be  ashamed  to  see  his 
family  appear  at  church  less  well  dressed  than  that  of  a 
man  whom  he  considers  in  the  same  rank  of  life  as 
himself 

Dame  Foster  was,  as  usual,  one  afternoon  sitting  at 
her  cottage  window,  whence  she   commanded  a  view 


40  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

down  the  village  street,  which  enabled  her  to  beguile  the 
tedious  iiours  by  reporting  to  iier  blind  companions  each 
little  villitge  incident.  She  saw  Mrs.  Otley  draw  near, 
accompanied  by  her  children  and  a  girl  who  attended 
upon  them.  Old  Sarah  could  not  help  remarking  that 
Mrs.  Otley  was  more  dressed  out  than  even  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray used  to  be.  "  It  is  a  pity  folks  do  not  know  their 
own  places.  I  remember  the  time  when  Mr.  Otley's 
mother — old  Mrs.  Otley,  that's  dead  and  gone — used  to 
wear  her  black  satin  bonnet  and  her  red  cloak,  just  as  I 
did  ;  only  her  cloak  was  handsonier,  and  the  satin  was  a 
richer  satin,  and  she  was  never  forced  to  wear  them  till 
they  were  shabby.  She  looked  respectable  at  all  times  ; 
and  she  kept  as  warm  a  house  as  anybody  in  the  parish  ; 
plenty  for  her  own  family  and  for  anybody  who  was  in 
want.  When  you  were  courting  me,  Nicholas,  you  used 
to  work  with  old  Farmer  Otley,  and,  I  dare  say,  if  you 
had  gone  on  with  him,  you  would  not  have  married  for 
some  years  longer.  1  don't  justly  mind  how  it  was,  but 
you  and  he  came  to  words,  and  you  went  off  to  Farmer 
Lightfoot,  and  he  did  not  board  nor  lodge  his  men ;  and 
I  remember  well  you  said  'twas  all  so  different  from  old 
Mrs.  Otley's  comfortable  hot  suppers,  and  her  good  clean 
bed,  and  her  warm  fireside  to  sit  by  of  an  evening,  that 
you  resolved  you  would  have  a  home  of  your  own,  and 
you  said  it  would  not  cost  you  much  more  to  have  a  cot- 
tage to  yourself  than  to  hire  a  single  room.  Ah  I  it  was 
all  very  well,  and  we  got  on  pretty  middling ;  but  it  was 
a  good  while  before  we  gathered  things  comfortable  about 
us.  We  often  used  to  say  that  if  we  had  waited  another 
two  or  three  years,  we  should  have  begun  quite  before- 
hand with  the  world.  Do  you  remember,  Nicholas,  how 
pleased  we  were  when  we  got  our  nice  clock  at  last  ?  It 
was  a  hard  matter  to  save  up  enough  for  the  clock,  with 
a  growing  family  coming  on  !" 

When  old  Sarah  had  advanced  thus  far  in  her  remi- 
niscences, she  perceived  that  Mrs.  Otley  crossed  the  road, 
and  directed  her  steps  to  her  cottage.  She  entered  the 
humble  apartment  with  a  graceful  slide,  and  her  silk  gown 
rustled,  as  Nicholas  said,  till  he  almost  thought  she  must 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  41 

be  the  minister's  lady.  Her  little  boy  was  dressed  in  a 
Polish  coat,  with  a  cap  from  which  dangled  a  smart  tassel. 
The  little  girl,  who  was  just  able  to  toddle,  had  a  boa 
round  her  neck  ;  and  the  brawny  country  girl  who  acted 
nursery-maid,  seemed  to  have  been  tutored  into  taking 
as  mincing  steps  as  her  mistress.  Mrs.  Otley  came  to 
bespeak  some  handkerchiefs  and  muftettees  like  those 
which  Mrs.  Parkins,  the  oracle  of  fashion  in  the  town  of 
Turnholme,  had  ordered ;  and  she  begged  Mrs.  Foster's 
permission  to  wait  at  her  house  till  Mr.  Otley  passed  by 
from  market,  and  would  drive  her  home  in  "  his  cliaisc" 
— a  term  which  serves  some  people  to  designate  every 
gradation  of  one-horsed  vehicle,  from  a  stanhope  to  a 
tax-cart. 

It  was  not  long  before  Mr.  Otley  was  seen  approach- 
ing in  the  market-cart,  which  Mrs.  Otley  denominateil 
his  chaise,  and  she  sent  the  girl  to  the  garden  gate  to  stop 
him  on  his  way.  The  good-natured  husband  quickly 
dismounted  from  his  cart,  and  entered  the  cottage,  fearing 
something  might  be  the  matter.  "  Why,  what's  this, 
Lizzy  ?     You're  not  ill,  to  be  sure  ?" 

*'  No,  my  love,"  answered  the  lady ;  "  only  fatigued 
with  my  walk ;  but  do  not  speak  so  loud,  if  you  please, 
my  love  ;  you  forget  my  nerves." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Lizzy,  I  can't  remember  those  things 
I  know  nothing  about ;  but  I  am  sorry  you  are  so  trou- 
bled with  them.  I  am  sure  if  they  are  -a  trouble  to  you, 
they  are  a  trouble  to  me  too ;  for  they  won't  let  you  do 
any  of  the  jobs  that  want  doing  about  a  farmhouse. 
Why,  what's  this  queer  bit  of  a  rat's  tail  you've  twisted 
round  little  liizzy's  neck?"  he  continued,  laughing,  as  he 
held  up  the  child's  Lilliputian  boa. 

"  Take  care,  dear  Mr.  Otley ;  the  child  will  take  cold 
if  she  is  without  her  boa.  Mrs.  Foster  will  think  you  (]uito 
a  savage,"  she  continued,  in  a  mincing  half-tender  tone,  to 
carry  oft'  his  rough  manners. 

"  No,  no,  she  won't !"  he  replied.  "  Dame  Foster  knows 
me  of  old  ;  and  Nicholas,  he  was  the  iirst  that  taught  me 
how  to  take  a  wasp's  nest.  Do  you  remember,  Nicholas  ? 
You  had  left  working  for  father  then  ;  but  you  were  ab 

d2 


M 


1 

42  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

ways  partial  to  nie  ;  and  I  remember  well  you  used  some- 
times to  come  at  after-hours,  and  help  me  wasp-nesting, 
or  bat-fowling,  or  such  like." 

"  Ah,  Master  Otley  !  you  were  a  smart  sprig  of  a  lad, 
and  I  always  had  a  liking  for  you.  You  always  were 
sharp  and  active  ;  and  when  you  were  quite  a  child,  you 
would  be  helping  your  poor  mother  when  she  was  busy 
at  her  dairy,  or  her  poultry-yard,  or  when  she  was  par- 
ticular busy  on  baking-days." 

"  There,  Lizzy  !  you  see  I  always  told  you  how  mother 
used  to  set  her  hand  to  every  thing,  and  never  thought 
any  useful  work  was  beneath  her.  That's  the  way  to 
make  farming  answer.  'Tis  the  small  profits  and  the 
small  savings  we  must  look  to,  if  v.e  mean  to  get  on  in 
these  hard  times." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Otley,  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  talk  so. 
Anybody  would  think  you  quite  mean  and  niggardly  to 
hear  you.  I  am  often  telhng  you,  you  do  not  do  yourself 
lustice." 

"  Ah,  wife  !  that's  all  very  well ;  but  it  is  just  because 
I  want  to  do  myself  justice  that  I  talk  so.  But  come 
along.  Up  with  you  into  the  cart,  and  we'll  be  jogging 
home.  The  more  the  merrier,"  he  added,  as  he  took  the 
little  girl  in  his  arms. 

"  oil,  Mr.  Otley  !  when  will  you  get  me  a  little  pony- 
chaise,  or  something  decent,  to  go  about  in  ?  I  have  never 
been  used  to  such  a  shabby  conveyance." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,  my  dear !  When  I  have  the  money 
you  shall  have  just  such  a  chay  as  you  fancy,  but  mean- 
time you  must  put  up  with  this.'  Good-night  to  you, 
Master  Foster !"  he  continued,  as  he  left  the  cottage. 
"  Good-night,  dame  !  good-night,  Susan  !  I  saw  some 
rare  fine  worsted  in  a  shop  window  at  Turnholme  to- 
day. You  shall  have  some  next  time  I  go  to  market.  I 
did  not  think  about  bringing  some  to-day.  It  would  be 
just  the  thing  for  your  work." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  sir.  You  are  very  good,"  an- 
swered Susan. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  she  looks  too  much  of  a  lady  to  be 
getting  up  into  that  common  cart,"  remarked  Sarah,  as 


THE    HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE.  43 

she  watched  Farmer  Otley  carefully  assisting  his  wife 
into  the  "chaise,"  and  dutifully  saving  the  silk  gown 
from  coming  in  contact  with  the  wheel.  "  There's  no 
particular  harm  in  the  woman  if  she  was  married  to  some 
one  who  only  wanted  a  wife  to  look  at ;  biit  how  she  is 
to  keep  every  thing  going  about  a  farm,  is  more  than  I 
can  tell !  She  needs  somebody  to  look  after  her,  instead 
of  being  able  to  look  after  others.  There's  her  veil  flying, 
and  her  bit  of  fur  that  she  calls  a  boa  slipping  offamong  the 
spokes  of  the  wheel,  and  her  smart  shawl  almost  shaken 
oft'  her  shoulders  as  the  cart  rattles  down  the  street.  Now 
the  wind  takes  her  bonnet,  and  it  is  blown  quite  back ! 
Old  Mrs.  Otley  used  to  look  so  decent  and  respectable, 
as  she  came  home  from  market  by  her  husband's  side, 
with  her  warm  red  cloak  held  tight  round  her,  and  her 
close  black  bonnet  fitting  to  her  face,  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  see  her.  Well !  after  all,  this  young  woman's  a  good- 
natured  soul,  and  gives  you  a  good  price  for  your  work, 
Susan  ;  and  for  all  she  is  so  fine  herself,  she  is  not  proud 
nor  haughty  to  others,"  added  the  kind-hearted  Sarah  ; 
for  though  the  habit  of  sitting  at  her  window,  watching 
all  that  took  place  in  the  village,  and  making  her  remarks 
and  her  calculations  thereon,  had  unavoidably  caused 
her  to  be  something  of  a  gossip,  her  heart  was  so  good, 
that  she  always  qualified  any  fault  she  might  find  with 
her  neighbours,  by  discovering  some  counterbalancing 
merit. 

It  is  almost  impossible  that  those  whose  lives  are 
passed  in  ministering  to  the  mental  cravings  and  the 
amusement  of  the  infirm  and  the  unoccupied,  should 
avoid  talking  too  freely  of  others.  However  amiable 
their  intentions  and  their  feelings  may  be,  so  many  words 
cannot  be  uttered  without  sometimes  doing  mischief,  if 
it  were  only  by  magnifying  trifles  into  matters  of  im- 
portance. 


44  THE    HAMPSHIUE    COTTAGE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

When  love's  afraid,  do  not  that  fear  despise  ; 
Flames  tremble  most  when  they  the  highest  rise. 

D'AvENAJfT. 

George  Wells  still  took  his  Sunday  walk  with  Susan ; 
and  Susan,  having  once  told  him  distinctly  that  she  should 
never  marry,  and  that  she  gave  him  back  his  troth,  having 
even  alluded  to  the  probability  of  his  marrying  another 
woman,  lelt  she  had  done  her  duty,  and  that  they  might 
still  be,  and  ever  might  remain,  friends.  But  friendship 
between  man  and  woman  seldom  exists  without  an  ad- 
mixture of  love,  past,  present,  or  to  come.  The  feeling 
that  begins  in  friendship  often  leads  on  to  love ;  often, 
too  often,  love  is  indulged  under  the  garb  of  friendship ; 
and  sometimes,  but  more  rarely,  love  leaves  behind  it  a 
regard  which  subsides  into  friendship.  Such,  as  Susan 
flattered  herself,  was  the  case  with  George ;  and  she 
therefore  hoped  that  she  should  always  experience  from 
him  the  same  kindness  and  the  same  attention.  But  it 
was  not  friendship,  it  was  still  love  that  George  felt  for 
Susan  :  and  it  was  a  touching  sight  to  mark  the  young 
man  leading  his  once  plighted  wife,  the  blind  Susan,  on 
her  way  from  church  ;  tenderly  watching  that  the  merry 
urchins  who  were  playing  in  the  path  did  not  nm  against 
her  in  their  sport,  or  carefully  pushing  aside  with  his  foot 
any  loose  stone  which  might  cause  her  to  stumble.  He 
would  often  bring  her  a  nosegay  too  ;  and  Susan  might 
generally  be  seen  with  a  bovvpot  placed  near  her,  con- 
taining the  common  flowers  of  the  season,  backed  up 
with  southernwood  and  marjoram  enough  to  drown 
the  scent  of  all  the  roses  and  pinks  of  which  the  fore- 
ground was  composed.  George  loved  to  see  the  smile 
with  which  his  present  was  greeted ;  and  still  looked 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  45 

with  admiration  at  the  silken  eyelashes  which  shaded  the 
eyes  that  could  no  longer  beam  upon  him. 

The  summer  thus  glided  by  ;  the  autumn  was  equally 
tranquil ;  and  Susan  learned  to  listen  for  the  accustomed 
step  ;  to  know,  without  attending  to  the  village  chimes, 
the  very  hour  at  which  he  usually  dropped  in,  and  to 
recognise  his  hand  upon  the  latch.  But  as  the  winter 
advanced,  and  the  days  became  short  and  the  weather 
severe,  when  they  could  no  longer  walk  together  in  the 
fields,  and  his  visits  were  as  much  to  the  old  people  as  to 
Susan,  he  did  not  call  so  regularly  ;  and  Susan  listened 
in  vain  for  the  sound  of  his  step  on  the  gravel,  or  the 
turn  of  his  hand  on  the  latch.  In  vain  did  she  now 
count  the  hours  and  the  quarters  most  accurately.  The 
usual  time  had  long  elapsed  when  he  did  call,  and  some- 
times he  omitted  calling  altogether.  She  could  not  won- 
der,; she  told  herself  she  ought  to  be  grateful  for  all  the 
kindness  she  had  met  with  ;  she  was  aware  she  had  no 
right  to  reproach  him,  but  yet  she  felt  her  sorrows  moro 
acutely  than  before. 

Old  Nicholas  was  the  first  to  remark  upon  George's 
frequent  absence.  Some  rumours  had  reached  Susan's 
ears  that  George  was  not  so  steady  as  he  had  formerly 
been  ;  but  she  hastened  to  defend  him,  and  to  account 
for  the  manner  in  which  his  time  was  occupied.  Though 
she  might  feel  hurt  herself,  it  was  painful  to  hear  him 
blamed,  and  she  dreaded  hearing  herself  pitied. 

"  Why,  is  not  that  seven  o'clock? — five,  six,  seven, — 
yes,  sure  enough  it  is  seven  o'clock,"  said  old  Nicholas, 
one  Sunday  evening  just  after  Christmas, — "and  no 
George  I  He  was  not  here  last  Sunday  neither.  I  am 
got  so  used  to  the  young  man,  it  seems  quite  dull  when 
so  many  days  go  by  without  his  giving  us  a  call." 

"  Young  men  must  take  a  little  pleasure  sometimes, 
father  !  'Tis  always  the  same  thing  here,  and  I  dare  say 
he  likes  a  little  change." 

'*  That's  quite  true,  Susan.  I've  been  young  in  my 
day,  and  have  had  my  pleasure ;  and  Sarah,  she  has 
known  what  it  is  to  be  light-hearted  :  and  we  must  not 
grudge  young  people  what  is  natural  at  their  age  ;"  then, 


46  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

after  a  little  while,  he  added,  "  but  you,  my  poor  girl, 
trouble  is  come  upon  yoa  before  its  time.  It  is  all  as  it 
should  be  for  us  to  bear  our  trials  and  wait  patiently  till 
it  pleases  God  to  take  us  ;  but  you,  not  yet  turned  your 
two-and-twenty — " 

"  Don't  pity  me,  father  !  that's  just  what  1  can't  bear. 
I  do  very  well  when  I  am  not  pitied,"  exclaimed  Susan, 
with  a  little  touch  of  her  former  petulance.  "  Thank  you 
all  the  same,  father,  for  thinking  so  much  about  me,"  she 
added,  in  a  few  moments,  with  a  subdued  manner.  "But 
hark  !  I  hear  his  step  !  I  know  the  sound  of  his  nailed 
shoes  on  the  gravel  ;"  and  her  head  was  raised,  and  her 
face  turned  to  the  door,  while  a  smile  almost  angelic  in 
its  sweetness  played  around  her  mouth.  "  I  am  glad  you 
are  come,  George,"  she  said,  "  for  father  missed  you  so 
much.  Come  in,  and  sit  down  by  him,  and  tell  him  all 
the  news." 

This  was  just  what  suited  George,  for  he  felt  conscious 
that  he  had  been  somewhat  neglectful  of  late,  and  he 
found  it  easier  to  entertain  old  Nicholas  with  the  village 
news,  than  to  sit  by  Susan  and  explain  to  her  how  his 
evenings  had  been  occupied. 

"  I  heard  plenty  of  news,  and  bad  news  too,  at  the  Cart 
and  Horses  t'other  night." 

"  Oh  George  !  you  have  not  taken  to  going  to  the 
public-houses,  sure  ?  You  never  used  to  do  such  a 
thing !" 

"  Bless  you,  Susan,  a  man  can't  work  all  day,  and  take 
no  amusement  when  his  work  is  over.  What  can  a 
man  do  that  has  not  got  a  home  to  go  to  ?"  This  w  ent 
to  Susan's  heart,  but  she  said  nothing.  "  As  I  was  tell- 
ing you,  they  said  at  the  Cart  and  Horses — no,  'twas  at 
the  Chequers — Tuesday  evening — " 

"  So  he  frequents  both  public-houses  !"  thought  Susan. 

George  continued,  "  Master  Smith  said  there  was  a 
talk  of  breaking  up  the  benefit  club." 

"  The  benefit  club  !"  exclaimed  Sarah  ;  "  why  what 
will  my  good  man  do  if  the  benefit  club  should  go  !  His 
half-pay  is  almost  all  we  have  had  to  live  upon  for  many 
a  long  year !" 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  47 

*'  That  will  fall  heavy  upon  us,  indeed,"  said  Nicholas. 
*'  Why,  what's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  never  heard  any 
talk  of  the  club  being  so  low." 

"  Why,  they  say  the  members  are  all  growing  old,  and 
so  many  of  them  keep  coming  upon  it  that  it  can't  hold 
out,  unless  they  consent  to  take  less  pay." 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Nicholas,  "  I  always  was  afraid  how  it 
would  be,  and  I  was  very  sorry  to  be  such  a  burden  to 
it  myself  That  was  why  I  agreed  that,  as  my  affliction 
was  not  like  a  common  illness  of  which  one  might  hope 
to  be  cured,  but  as  I  must  look  for  no  other  than  being 
on  the  club  as  long  as  I  lived,  I  would  take  only  half-pay, 
walking-pay,  as  they  call  it.  My  two  sons  are  very  good, 
they  always  make  up  the  money  to  me  out  of  their  earn- 
ings. I  am  sure  I  would  not  wish  to  be  too  covetous,  and 
to  break  my  club." 

"  I  hope  'tis  only  talk :  it  will  do  well  enough,  I  dare 
say,  if  we  can  get  some  new  young  members  into  it  that 
are  not  likely  to  be  any  drain  upon  it  yet.  Well  !  I 
have  put  in  for  four  years  and  never  drawn  a  farthing 
yet." 

"  I  am  sure,  George,  you  should  be  very  grateful  to 
think  w  hat  a  blessing  God  has  granted  you,  in  giving  you 
such  good  health  all  these  years." 

"  True  enough,  Susan  :  in  that  sense  I  should  be  glad 
never  to  have  any  of  my  money  back  again.  And  1  am 
sure.  Master  Foster,  I  am  glad  enough  to  be  in  the  club, 
and  help  to  keep  it  going,  if  it  is  only  for  your  sake." 

"  Thank  you,  George  ;  that's  kindly  said,"  answered 
Susan,  while  a  tear  trembled  in  her  eyelashes. 

"  Well,  Master  Foster,"  said  George,  "  1  must  be  going ; 
for  I  promised  to  meet  Will  Dixon  at  the  Chequers  this 
evening." 

"  Oh,  George  I  you  are  not  going  to  pass  your  Sunday 
evening  at  the  public-house  1" 

"  Come,  don't  scold,  Susan  ;  I  promised  to  meet  Will 
Dixon  ;  and  though  we  want  to  have  a  bit  of  talk  to- 
gether, we  need  not  make  too  free  with  the  beer,  you 
know :"  and  George  was  gone.     Susan  remained  with 


48  THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 

an  indefinite  sensation  of  uneasiness  for  which  she  could 
not  satisfactorily  have  accounted  to  herself. 

The  following  week  they  saw  no  more  of  George, 
neither  did  they  on  the  Sunday  ;  but  in  the  succeeding 
week  he  again  called.  The  alarm  concerning  the  bene- 
fit club  seemed  to  have  subsided :  Nicholas's  mind  was 
set  at  ease  upon  the  subject ;  and  Susan  timidly  asked 
George  whether  he  and  Will  Dixon  had  had  a  merry 
bout  of  it  at  the  Chequers. 

"  Come,  come,  Susan,  you  want  to  get  me  to  tell  tales 
out  of  school  I  we  drank  no  more  beer  than  was  good  for 
us,  and  then  I  went  home  with  Will  Dixon  to  supper." 
Did  these  few  words  reassure  Susan  that  George  was 
not  likely  to  fall  into  the  habit  of  frequenting  the  ale- 
house, and  did  they  consequently  restore  her  mind  to  its 
usual  tranquillity '(  On  the  contrary,  a  sensation  shot 
through  her  which  she  had  hitherto  been  spared.  She 
remembered  that  Will  Dixon's  sister  Jane  was  a  pretty 
girl  with  bright  blue  e3'es,  and  one  who  had  for  a  short 
time  divided  George's  attentions  with  herself,  before  she 
had  finally  fixed  them.  She  remembered  thinking  that 
Jane  Dixon  was  very  partial  to  George,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  the  neighbours  had  joked  Jane  Dixon  about 
wearing  the  willow.  Jealousy  for  the  first  time  darted 
through  her  heart,  and  she  was  alarmed  and  roused  by 
the  keenness  of  the  pang.  With  tiie  ra[)idity  of  lightning 
she  pictured  to  herself  George  in  love  with  Jane, — 
George,  Jane's  accepted  lover, — George  her  bridegroom, 
— George  her  kind  and  affectionate  husband  !  It  was 
with  difficulty  she  could  bear  her  part  in  the  conversation, 
and  her  smile  was  sad  and  constrained. 

"  1  do  not  think  you  seem  right  well,  Susan.  Are  you 
ill,  Susan  ?  inquired  George  kindly  and  affectionately. 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear  George  ;  I  am  quite  well — only 
I  feel  a  little  dull — I  think  'tis  the  weather.  Mother  said 
she  felt  heavy  this  morning." 

"  Maybe  it  is.  Jane  Dixon  was  saying,  Sunday,  that 
this  mild  weather  was  not  seasonable,  and  that  .she  liked 
a  good  sharp  frost,  and  a  good  long  walk."  Susan 
quivered  as  the  name  came  from  George's  lips.     But 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  49 

George  was  not  yet  in  love  with  Jane,  and  no  conscious- 
ness prevented  his  uttering  the  name  freely.  Susan 
had  almost  said,  "  So,  you  were  walking  with  Jane 
Dixon,  Sunday  !"  but  she  checked  the  remark,  mentally 
saying,  "  And  why  should  he  not  walk  with  Jane  ?  and 
why  should  he  not  marry  Jane  ?  Why  should  I  fret  ?  I 
ought  to  hope  Jane  may  draw  him  away  from' idle  com- 
panions and  bad  company.  I  fretted  when  I  thought 
he  was  taking  to  such  courses  ;  surely  I  ought  to  be  glad 
if  anybody  else  gets  the  power  I  have  lost  to  lure  him 
from  evil  ways.  Poor  fellow  !  he  would  never  have 
thought  of  such  things  if  I  had  not  been  afflicted  as  I 
am.  If  he  had  married,  and  had  a  comfortable  home, 
he  would  have  gone  on  being  steady.  Yes,  I  ought  to 
hope  he  may  marry  Jane  Dixon  and  make  her  a  good 
husband."  But,  school  herself  as  she  would,  she  did 
fret ;  and  all  the  placidity  of  mind  which  she  had  la- 
boured to  acquire  was  gone.  Night  and  day  did  she 
think  of  George  and  Jane,  and  constantly  did  she  fancy 
them  walking  through  the  same  lanes,  strolling  up  the 
same  field-paths,  loitering  along  the  same  headlands, 
where  she  had  so  often  wandered  with  George.  Long 
before  such  things  did  occur,  had  she  imagined  thorn. 
But  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  that  which  her  reason 
wished,  but  her  feelings  dreaded,  came  to  pass.  George's 
visits  became  more  and  more  rare  ;  and  when  he  did 
look  in,  Jane  Dixon's  name  was  never  breathed. 

There  was  an  awkwardness  in  his  manner,  and  he  al- 
most exclusively  addressed  himself  to  Nicholas.  Susan 
was  all  gentleness,  and  invariably,  when  he  took  leave, 
thanked  him  for  calling,  in  a  subdued  manner,  which 
showed  how  entirely  she  felt  it  was  from  motives  of 
charity,  and  not  from  preference,  that  he  now  visited 
them.  George,  without  deciphering  what  caused  the 
change  in  her  tone,  was  aware  that  she  read  his  mind, 
and  he  became  ill  at  ease  in  her  presence. 

Jane  Dixon  had  originally  liked  George  ;  and  now  that 
he  was  free  again,  and  that  Susan  Foster  had,  as  it  was 
well  known,  refused  to  marry  him,  she  saw  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  put  forth  all  her  stores  of  rustic 

VOL.  II. E 


60  THE   HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

allurements  to  win  back  her  first  love.  George  was  by 
nature  steady  and  domestic :  he  had  for  two  years  been 
engaged  to  Susan,  and  had  therefore  been  in  the  habit 
of  considering  a  wife,  a  family,  a  home,  as  the  enjoy- 
ments to  which  a  poor  man  should  look  forward  ;  and 
although  he  had  latterly  been  led  to  mix  more  with  com- 
panions of  loose  character,  though  he  had  loitered  away 
many  an  evening  at  bowls  or  in  the  alehouse,  he  was 
not  happy  while  leading  such  a  life.  At  first,  it  was 
for  the  loss  of  Susan  herself  that  he  grieved ;  but  in 
time  his  regrets  became  less  sentimental.  He  pined  for 
a  fireside  of  his  own,  his  own  chimney  nook,  his  hot 
rasher  of  bacon  for  supper,  and  the  kind  attentions  of  a 
wife,  even  though  that  wife  were  not  Susan  Foster.  He 
was  in  a  state  of  mind  which  laid  him  peculiarly  open  to 
such  attractions  as  Jane  Dixon  possessed  ;  a  tolerable 
share  of  beauty,  extreme  good-humour,  and,  above  all,  a 
very  decided  predilection  for  him,  which  she  was  at  no 
pains  to  conceal.  No  wonder  then,  if,  after  two  years  of 
hopeless  attendance  upon  poor  Susan,  he  should  now  find 
himself  engaged  to  Jane  Dixon,  and  that  the  only  diffi- 
culty which  remained,  was  to  break  the  event  to  Susan. 
Every  time  George  entered  their  cottage,  to  bid  them 
a  hurrying  good-morning,  or  to  wish  them  a  hasty  good- 
night, Susan  thought  the  moment  was  arrived  when  he 
was  going  to  announce  to  them  the  step  he  had  taken  ; — - 
for  she  felt  that  he  would  not  allow  them  to  learn  it  only 
from  common  report ;  and  she  judged  rightly.  Once,  or 
twice,  after  having  wished  tiiem  good-night,  he  had  lin- 
gered with  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door,  or  had 
returned  to  ask  some  trifling  question,  and  then  had  hur- 
ried suddenly  away.  Each  time  she  felt  that  the  decisive 
moment  was  come,  and  she  worked  herself  up  to  re- 
ceive the  intelligence  as  she  ought.  She  thought  she 
wished  it  over,  and  her  mind  at  rest ;  and  yet  she  felt  re- 
lieved when  the  door  was  closed,  and  she  heard  his  step 
receding  along  the  little  gravel  path,  and  she  might  still 
think  of  him  as  her  George,  and  not  as  the  promised 
husband  of  another. 


THE   IIAMPSIIIRE  COTTAGE.  51 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Behold  the  herbage  rich,  in  pride  of  June, 
Pranked  with  gay  flowrets  dancing  merrily 

Beneath  the  sunbeams  of  the  sultry  noon, 

While  slumbering  in  their  cells  their  perfumes  lie. 

But  when  the  scythe  sweeps  on  right  sturdily 
Laying  their  sweet  heads  low,  their  spirits  fling 

Pure  incense  on  the  breeze  ere  yet  they  die  : 
So  doth  the  chastening  hand  of  sorrow  bring 
Virtues  and  graces  forth,  by  joy  left  slumbering. 

Unpublished  Poems. 

It  was  rather  more  than  two  yenrs  from  Alice  Mow- 
bray's wedding-day,  when  George  Wells  lifted  the  latch 
of  Master  Foster's  door,  and,  closing  it  after  him,  walked 
into  the  house,  seated  himself  on  the  polished  wooden 
chair  opposite  old  Sarah's,  and  said,  in  a  hurried  voice, 
"  I  am  come,  neighbours — I  am  come  to  tell  you  a  piece 
of  news  which  I  should  be  loath  you  should  hear  from 
anybody  but  myself" 

Susan's  heart  died  away  within  her — her  head  drooped 
more  than  ever  over  her  knitting  ;  Dame  Foster  took  off 
her  sfjectacles,  and,  wiping  them,  laid  them  within  the 
sacred  book  from  which  she  had  been  reading  some  texts 
to  her  husband  and  her  child  ;  old  Nicholas  half  turned 
jiimself  upon  his  settle  ;  but  none  spoke.  Susan  felt  that 
the  silence  must  be  distressing  to  George  ;  and  exerting 
herself  the  first,  she  replied,  "  If  it  is  any  news,  George, 
that  concerns  yourself,  you  may  be  sure  there  are  no 
friends  who  will  be  more  rejoiced  to  hear  of  any  good 
likely  to  befall  you,  or  more  grieved  to  hear  of  any  mis- 
fortune. You  have  scarce  any  older  friends  than  father, 
and  mother,  and  myself;  so  you  need  not  be  afraid  to 
speak." 

"  Thank  you,  Susan,  thank  you  ;  that's  just  like  you. 
I  was  sure  you  would  take  it  so.  And  yet,  after  all  that 
has  passed  between  us,  I  felt — I  don't  know  how  I  felt. 
But  it  seems  strange  1  shoiild  marry  anybody  else," 


52  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

"  I  gave  you  back  your  word,  George,  and  this  is  what 
I  have  long  expected ;  and  long  tried  to  make  up  my 
mind  to,"  she  added,  with  some  eflbrt.  "  I  could  not  ex- 
pect you  to  go  on  always  tending  upon  a  poor  blind  girl 
like  me.  'Tis  better,  much  better,  than  getting  any  way 
unsteady.  God  knows,  1  have  not  a  word  to  say  against 
your  marrying  Jane  Dixon." 

"  Thank  you,  Susan,  thank  you,"  he  repeated  ;  "  I  feel 
easier  now  !  Susan,  this  has  been  a  great  trouble  to  me ; 
for  I  could  not  bear  deceiving  you  like,  and  yet  I  did  not 
know  how  to  tell  you  there  was  any  courting  going  on 
between  me  and  Jane," 

"  You  know,  George,  I  gave  you  back  your  word  from 
the  first." 

"Yes,  yeS;  so  you  did ;  but  for  a  long  time  I  did  not 
believe  I  should  ever  think  of  any  girl  but  you  ;  but  1  do 
not  know  how  it  is,  a  man  wants  a  home — does  he  not. 
Master  Foster  ? — and  he  wants  a  wife  to  see  to  him- 
And  then,  Jane  Dixon,  she's  a  tight  lass ;  and  I  don't 
know  how  it  was,  I  never  came  home  from  work  without 
meeting  her  going  of  an  errand  somewhere  ;  and  then 
she  is  a  bustling  girl,  and  one  who  will  keep  things  nice 
and  tidy  in  a  poor  man's  house." 

"  Her  mother  was  a  thrifty,  bustling  body,  and  I  hope 
she  will  make  you  a  good  wife,  George,"  said  Dame  Fos- 
ter, in  a  tone  which  she  meant  should  be  very  kind;  but 
her  thoughts  were  so  much  occupied  with  Susan,  that 
she  had  no  feeling  to  spare  for  any  one  else. 

"  I  wish  you  happiness,  George,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  you 
have  behaved  very  well  by  my  poor  girl ;  and,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  her  affliction,  you  would  have  married  her 
and  made  her  a  good  husband,  I  warrant.  It  is  the  will 
of  God  it  should  be  as  it  is." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  Master  Foster." 

Meanwhile,  Susan  had  been  feeling,  upon  the  little 
shelf  on  the  wall  close  to  where  she  sat,  for  a  small  book, 
which  at  length  she  found.  "  George,"  she  said,  "  I  have 
a  book  here  which  I  ought  to  give  you  back.  'Tis  those 
Watts's  Hymns  which  you  gave  to  me  a  few  days  before 
Miss  Alice's  wedding ;"  she  could  not  repress  a  sigh^ 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  53 

**  If  you  remember,  you  wrote  both  our  Christian  names 
upon  it, — and  then  said  you  would  add  the  surname  when 
one  name  would  do  for  both.  I  don't  think  it  is  right  I 
should  keep  that  book,  and  you  the  husband  of  another ; 
and  yet  I  could  never  find  it  in  my  heart  to  destroy  it. 
Besides,  I  can't  read  all  the  beautiful  hymns  that  are  in 
it ;  but  you  can,  and  sometimes  it  may  do  you  good  per- 
haps to  read  them." 

George  indeed  remembered  giving  Susan  the  little 
book  :  he  had  that  day  obtained  the  promise  of  Master 
Mumford's  house,  and  he  had  that  day  gained  her  consent 
to  their  being  speedily  asked  in  churcii.  They  had  then 
written  their  names  in  the  manner  described  by  Susan, 
and  had  talked  over  their  future  prospects  with  the  as- 
surance of  soon  being  indissolubly  united. 

As  George  took  the  book  from  Susan's  hands,  he  felt 
them  tremble.  He  was  scarcely  more  composed  him- 
self The  appearance  of  the  little  volume,  the  sight  of 
the  writing,  annihilated  for  a  moment  the  intervening 
two  years  ;  and  he  saw  Susan  as  she  then  stood  beside 
him,  radiant  with  health,  joy,  and  tenderness. 

Jane  Dixon  would  not  have  been  pleased  had  she 
known  with  what  pain  he  received  this  present,  with 
what  regret  he  looked  back  upon  the  image  thus  con- 
jured up  to  his  mind.  The  tears  were  in  his  eyes  as 
he  held  it.  "  If  it  is  not  right  for  you  to  keep  the 
book,  Susan,  I  do  not  think  it  is  right  I  should ;  for  I 
am  sure  I  shall  never  look  upon  it  without  wishing — with- 
out remembering — •  Oh  I  Susan,  how  happy  we  were 
when  I  gave  you  that  book  !"  His  voice  broke,  and  he 
passed  the  back  of  his  hand  several  times  over  his  eyes. 

Strong  emotion  in  a  stout  and  sturdy  peasant,  whose 
feelings  we  are  sure  are  thoroughly  genuine,  and  in  which 
we  are  satisfied  there  is  no  touch  of  sickly,  morbid  sen- 
sibility, is  always  an  affecting  subject  of  contemplation. 
It  was  almost  too  much  for  old  Sarah,  who  now  wept 
like  a  child ;  while  Susan  experienced  among  the  poignant 
regrets  which  overpowered  her,  a  mixture  of  satisfaction 
to  find  she  was  so  tenderly  recollected.  "  I  did  not  think 
you  would  mind  it,  George  ;  but  if  it  makes  you  think 

e2 


54 


THE    HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE. 


too  much  of  by-gone  days,  why,  perhaps  'twill  be  best 
you  should  give  the  book  to  mother  to  keep.  I  would 
not  wish  you  to  think  any  more  about  me  now  ;  it  would 
be  no  way  right."  But  it  was  a  comfort  to  Susan, 
though  she  was  not  aware  of  it,  that  she  had  to  tell  him 
not  to  think  about  her. 

George  still  held  the  book,  awkwardly  shifting  it 
from  hand  to  hand :  at  length  he  held  it  out ;  "  Take 
it,  dame,"  he  said,  "  take  it ;  for  I'm  going  to  be  mar- 
ried to  Jane  Dixon,  and  I  must  not  think  any  more 
about  Susan,  nor  about  the  days  that  are  past  and 
gone ;  it  won't  do,"  and  he  pushed  the  l>jok  towards 
Dame  Foster,  and  abruptly  opened  the  door.  "  God 
bless  you,  George,"  and  Susan  held  out  her  hand.  He 
had  closed  the  latch  and  was  gone.  Her  hand  dropped 
to  her  side,  but  she  was  not  mortified.  She  scarcely 
knew  how  it  was  that  she  felt  so  much  less  miserable 
than  she  expected  she  would  feel  when  George  was  about 
to  be  married  to  another, — when  an  eternal  barrier  was 
about  to  be  placed  between  them, — when  she  had  broken 
the  last  link  that  bound  them  to  each  other.  Alas !  it 
must  be  confessed,  that  if  the  causes  of  her  more  re- 
signed frame  of  mind  were  accurately  analyzed,  there 
might  be  discovered,  among  better  feelings,  a  slight  ad- 
mixture of  vanity,  which  had  been  soothed  by  finding 
George  still  remembered  her  with  afiection,  and  by  feel- 
ing that  he  did  not  love  Jane  Dixon  so  well  as  he  had 
once  loved  her. 

Susan  was  a  good  and  a  generous  girl ;  but  in  her 
nature  there  was  a  portion  of  that  quality  which,  although 
subdued  and  chastened  by  heavy  affliction,  is  seldom  en- 
tirely rooted  out  of  the  human  heart.  She  did  not  wish 
George  to  be  unhappy  on  her  account ;  she  heartily 
hoped  Jane  would  prove  a  good  wife  to  him  ;  and  yet, 
after  having  experienced  considerable  mortification  in 
the  course  of  his  unavoidable  neglect  of  her,  it  was  a 
balm  to  poor  frail  human  nature  to  feel  that  she  was  riot 
relinquished  without  a  pang. 

"  My  poor  girl,"  said  Sarah,  after  she  had  watched 
George's  hurried  steps  along  the  road,  over  the  style. 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  55 

and  into  the  fields  beyond  the  village, — "  my  poor  girl ! 
I  must  no  longer  pray,  as  I  have  done,  never  to  see 
another  sun  rise  when  once  my  poor  Nicholas  is  in  his 
grave,  for  what  will  you  do  without  me  ?  As  long  as 
George  was  single,  I  felt  you  would  never  want  a  friend  ; 
but  now  I  must  hope  to  be  spared  still  for  your  sake  !  I 
once  thought,  when  you  were  George's  wife,  and  my 
good  man  was  at  rest,  that  old  Sarah  Foster's  task  would 
be  finished,  and  that  she  might  pray  the  Almighty  to 
release  her  from  these  pains.  But  God's  will  be  done  !" 
and  she  bowed  her  head  in  meek  submission. 

George  Wells  had  instinctively  avoided  the  village  ; 
he  dreaded  to  meet  his  betrothed.  Susan  had  risen  up 
to  his  mind  as  she  had  been  in  her  best  days  :  those  days 
once  more  became  so  present  to  him,  that  all  his  former 
love  seemed  to  return  with  fresh  force,  and  he  wondered 
how  he  had  become  entangled  with  Jane  Dixon.  But  a 
few  weeks  more,  and  she  would  be  his  wife  ;  and  among 
the  lower  orders  that  name  is  more  sacred  than  anions 
the  higher,  where  the  gradations  between  virtue  and 
vice  are  softened  down,  and  the  line  of  demarcation  not 
so  absolute.  He  remembered  that  he  had  promised  to 
walk  with  Jane  that  very  evening,  and  he  somewhat 
slowly  and  unwillingly  returned  towards  the  village  by 
a  path  which  led  nearer  the  dwelling  of  his  new  love. 
He  had  not  advanced  far  when  he  met  her  gayly  approach- 
ing in  search  of  him.  He  was  scarcely  yet  in  a  frame 
of  mind  to  meet  her  gladly,  and  he  wished  she  had  not 
been  quite  so  affectionate  in  her  disposition  towards  him. 
She  certainly  was  not  coy.  He  had  never  been  called 
upon  to  sue  ;  he  had  but  to  receive  the  advances  she 
was  disposed  to  make.  "Poor  girl  !"  he  thought,  "it  is 
not  her  fault,  if  I  once  liked  Susan  so  much.  She  has 
always  been  partial  to  me :  I  must  make  her  a  good  hus- 
band. It  would  never  do  to  be  anywise  unkind  to  her 
now  ;  besides,  the  parish  begins  to  talk,  and  the  best 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  be  married  out  of  hand."  And 
the  result  was  that  they  agreed  he  should  wait  on  the 
minister,  and  inform  him  they  wished  to  be  asked  in 
church. 


66  THE  HAMPSIIIRE  COTTAGE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Let  fowk  bode  weel,  and  strive  to  do  their  best, 
Nae  mair's  required  ;  let  Heaven  make  out  the  rest. 

Allan  Ramsay's  Gentle  Shepherd. 

Susan  was  somewhat  agitated  and  perplexed  the  next 
Sunday  morning,  debating  in  her  own  mind  whether 
George  and  Jane  were  likely  to  be  asked  that  very  day, 
and  whether  she  could  hear  their  names  called  over 
with  the  composure  which  befitted  so  holy  a  place.  She 
did  not  like  to  absent  herself  from  church  on  that  ac- 
count; for  to  those  who  have  acquired  the  habit  of  never 
failing  in  their  attendance,  the  omission  appears  a  dere- 
liction of  duty.  She  therefore  summoned  up  her  cour- 
age ;  her  mother,  as  usual,  arranged  her  bonnet,  and 
pinned  her  shawl  with  due  attention  to  neatness.  The 
dame,  as  usual,  turned  the  key  of  the  door,  and  placed  it 
in  her  pocket';  then,  taking  Nicholas's  arm  with  one  hand, 
she  guided  him  safely  on  his  way,  while  with  the  other 
she  supported  her  own  feebler  steps  with  her  polished 
staff.  Susan  followed,  led  by  a  neighbour's  little  girl, 
who  always  came  to  attend  her  to  church. 

This  afflicted  family,  so  decent  in  their  apparel,  so  re- 
spectable in  their  behaviour,  were  never  seen  drawing 
near  the  house  of  worship  without  exciting  a  feeling  of 
pity  and  veneration  in  all  whose  souls  were  not  callous 
to  every  good  emotion.  They  had  arranged  themselves 
as  usual  in  their  pew.  The  service  had  begun  ;  and 
when  the  close  of  the  second  lesson  drew  near,  poor 
Susan's  heart  beat  almost  audibly.  Her  head  was  held 
low,  and  her  face  was  partly  concealed  by  her  bonnet : 
but  she  strove  to  maintain  as  unmoved  a  countenance  as 
possible ;  for  she  knew  that  the  opposite  seat  was  occu- 


THE    HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE.  57 

pied  by  gay  young  girls  who  would  feel  a  curiosity  about 
her,  and  she  was  unable  to  tell  when,  or  when  not,  her 
countenance  might  be  the  subject  of  remark  to  others. 

The  last  words  of  the  lesson  were  read  ;  the  large 
Bible  was  closed  with  a  heavy  noise  ;  there  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  but  the  clergyman  proceeded  with  the 
service,  and  Susan  was  spared  for  that  Sunday.  A  sort 
of  hope  shot  through  her  mind  ;  and  yet  what  did  she 
hope  ?  She  had  herself  relinquished  George,  she  had 
herself  anticipated  his  marriage,  she  knew  he  was  en- 
gaged, she  knew  he  could  not  with  honour  break  oif  with 
Jane  Dixon  ;  if  he  did,  was  not  she  as  unfit  for  a  poor 
labourer's  wife  as  when  she  first  gave  him  back  his  troth? 
It  was  all  so,  and  yet  she  felt  relieved. 

The  following  Sunday  she  was  again  seated  in  her 
accustomed  place,  and  she  again  listened  as  the  clergy- 
man read  the  service.  This  time  the  names  were  read, 
— "  George  Wells,  bachelor,  and  Jane  Dixon,  spinster, 
both  of  this  parish."  The  girls  opposite  might  have  seen 
her  lips  quiver;  and  the  hands  which  were  habitually 
meekly  clasped  upon  her  knee,  were  slightly  raised,  and 
fell  again  immediately. 

That  day  Sarah  herself  led  Susan  from  church,  and 
gave  up  the  guidance  of  Nicholas  to  the  little  girl.  They 
reached  their  home ;  and  before  old  Sarah  busied  her- 
self in  the  preparation  for  their  humble  repast,  she  sat 
down  to  rest  herself.     Susan  heard  her  mother  sigh. 

"  Mother!"  she  said,  "  you  are  fretting  about  me  !" 

"  Not  to  say  fretting,  Susan,  for  we  heard  no  more 
than  what  we  expected  to  hear;  but  I  thought  it  was 
a  great  trial  to  you  to  hear  their  names  in  church.  I 
was  afraid  whether  it  might  not  be  almost  too  much  for 
you.  And  then  I  sighed  to  think,  when  we  were  gone, 
what  a  poor  desolate  creature  you  would  be;  and  I 
was  wishing  we  could  any  way  provide  for  you.  I 
should  not  like  you  to  come  on  the  parish,  and  yet  I 
don't  see  how  we  can  save  any  thing, — 'Wo  that  can't 
earn  a  shilling.  Next  time  Farmer  Otley  calls,  I  will 
ask  him  about  the  Friendly  Society  he  was  mention- 


58  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

ing ;  and  I  have  heard  talk  of  insuring  one  life  against 
another,  and  perhaps  we  might  get  your  hrothers  to 
help,"  continued  the  old  woman,  her  thoughts  gradually 
led  from  the  wound  Susan's  affections  had  received,  to 
the  blasting  of  her  worldly  prospects. 

When,  as  among  the  lower  orders,  the  provision 
necessary  for  existence  is  at  stake,  the  most  tender  re- 
grets must  often  be  mixed  up  with  other  considerations ; 
but  Susan  could  not  yet  comprehend  any  sorrow  but 
that  of  losing  the  lover  of  her  youth.  "  Never  trouble 
your  head  about  me  in  that  way,  mother ;  I  don't  care 
nor  think  any  thing  about  such  matters." 

"  That's  all  very  well  for  young  folks  who  have 
always  had  their  fathers'  roof  over  their  heads,"  inter- 
posed Nicholas,  "  and  a  bit  to  eat  as  long  as  their 
parents  had  it ;  but  it  is  the  duty  of  parents  to  look 
forward  for  their  children.  You  will  find  it  very  dif- 
ferent when  we  are  in  our  graves,  and  you  have  to  find 
yourself  board  and  lodging  and  every  thing.  It  frets 
me  so,  sometimes,  I  can't  go  to  sleep  I  I  and  my  old 
woman  used  often  to  say  we  should  be  at  rest  when 
we  were  beneath  the  sod,  and  we  did  not  care  how 
soon  our  time  came ;  but  now  I  quite  dread  to  think 
we  may  be  taken  any  day." 

"  And  so  may  I,  father,  be  taken  any  day.  It  often 
happens  that  the  youngest  goes  first;  and  as  'tis  all  in 
the  hands  of  Providence,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to 
make  yourself  unhappy  about  me  in  that  way.  Besides, 
who  knows  but  God  may  raise  me  up  friends  if  my 
time  o/  need  should  ever  come?  It  is  not  my  board 
nor  my  lodging  that  troubles  me,"  she  could  not  help 
adding,  with  an  irrepressible  expression  of  grief. 

"  Ah  !  I  know  what  'tis  that  troubles  you.  'Tis  just 
what  1  am  often  thinking  of.  In  my  affliction  I  have 
a  kind  helpmate  to  cheer  me,  and  keep  up  my  spirits, 
and  save  me  from  ever  feeling  lonesome  ;  and  I  have 
you,  Susan,  and  I  love  to  listen  to  your  voice,  though 
it  has  not  its  cheerful  tone,  and  though  I  never  hear  the 
laugh  that  used  to  make  my  heart  glad  within  me. 
You,  my  poor  girl,  you  can  never  have  these  comforts, 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  59 

and  that  weighs  upon  my  mind,  though  I  do  not  Hke  to 
say  much  about  it." 

"  It  can't  be  helped,  father,  and  I  hope  I  submit  as 
I  should.  It  has  pleased  God  to  visit  me  as  he  has 
done,  and  I  am  sure  I  have  done  no  more  than  my  duty 
in  not  letting  George  burden  himself  with  me  for  a 
wife." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  all  right ;  you  have  done  your  duty, 
that's  certain." 

"And  when  we  have  done  that,  we  must  leave  the 
rest  to  Providence." 

Mr.  Otley  called  soon  afterward  with  some  of  the 
worsted  which  he  was  now  in  the  constant  habit  of 
procuring  for  Susan.  Dame  Foster  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  her  mind  enlightened  concerning  an- 
nuities, and  friendly  societies,  and  all  the  other  modes 
of  provision  for  the  poor  which  were  established  at 
Turnholme.  But  all  required  a  larger  monthly  sum,  or 
a  more  considerable  deposite,  than  they  could  possibly 
contrive  to  pay.  "  I  wish,  Mr.  Otley,"  said  Susan, 
"  you  could  persuade  father  and  mother  not  to  think 
so  much  about  me;  if 'tis  any  thing  about  themselves, 
they  always  say  we  should  rely  on  Providence:  tell 
them  they  should  do  so  for  me,  as  well  as  for  them- 
selves." 

"It  is  quite  right,  Susan,  you  should  speak  as  you  do, 
and  feel  as  you  do  ;  but  it  is  quite  right  too  that  your 
parents  should  be  willing  to  do  the  best  they  can  for 
you.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  could  put  them  in  the  way  of 
making  some  provision  for  you  ;  but  when  people  get 
to  be  in  years,  all  the  insurances  are  so  high  :  that  is  a 
thing  people  should  think  of  when  they  are  young  and 
in  health." 

"  That  is  quite  just.  Master  Otley,  and  so  I  did  when 
I  was  young ;  for  I  put  into  my  club  as  soon  as  I  was 
turned  nineteen, — as  soon  as  I  got  any  thing  like  man's 
wages  ;  and  a  good  job  it  has  been  for  me  that  I  did  so ; 
but,  you  sen,  one  could  not  reckon  upon  such  an  afflic- 
tion as  poor  Susan's." 

"And  that's  quite  just  too,  Master  Foster;  and  I'll 


GO  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

be  bound  that  if  ever  she  should  be  in  want,  the  gentry, 
ay,  and  the  farmers  too,  would  not  grudge  her  some 
help, — such  a  good  girl,  and  such  a  patient  girl  as  she 
is  1  and  so  young  too,  and  so  well-favoured  as  she  is  ! 
I  often  tell  my  mistress  I  don't  care  how  many  warm 
handkerchiefs  she  buys  of  Susan  ;  'tis  all  money  well 
spent :  though  I  will  say  I  wish  she  would  not  always 
be  making  me  drive  her  over  to  Turnholme,  that  she 
may  learn  the  new  fashions.  What  do  the  fashions 
signify  ?  say  I ;  where  is  your  red  cloak  ?  say  I  ;  and 
where  is  your  checked  apron  ?  say  I :  and  then  she 
is  so  mad  with  me  !  But  she  is  a  good-natured  soul, 
and  always  comes  round  after  I've  laughed  a  bit.  And 
then  she  is  not  so  hearty  and  strong  as  I  am,  and  she 
can't  bustle  about.  Well,  good-night,  Nicholas  !  I  must 
be  off.  I  must  not  forget  this  package,  though  :  Miss 
Mincing,  at  the  shop,  told  me  I  must  be  sure  and  carry 
it  very  carefully,  for  the  least  touch  would  spoil  it." 
And  away  went  the  good-natured  farmer,  carrying  the 
parcel  very  carefully  to  the  cart,  but  then  putting  it  at 
the  bottom  of  the  vehicle  among  many  other  articles  of 
great  size  and  weight,  where  it  was  jumbled  in  a  manner 
which  would  have  agonized  Miss  Mincing  had  she  wit- 
nessed it,  and  which  did  agonize  Mrs.  Otley  when  she 
extracted  it  from  among  its  travelling  companions,  and 
upon  examination  found  the  beautiful  cap,  with  its  wires, 
and  its  bows,  more  fit  to  adorn  a  May-day  chimney- 
sweeper than  the  head  of  so  refined  a  lady  as  she  was. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Otley,  how  could  you  !"  she  exclaimed,  in 
an  accusing  voice  to  her  husband. 

"  How  could  I  do  what,  Lizzy,  dear  ?" 

"  Look  at  my  cap  !"  she  said  ;  "  I  am  sure  Miss 
Mincing  must  have  told  you  to  take  care  of  it." 

"  So  1  did,  Lizzy ;  I  held  it  up  between  my  finger 
and  thumb,  as  tenderly  as  if  it  was  a  plum  with  the 
bloom  on  it,  till  I  laid  it  quite  light  at  the  top  of  every 
thing  else  in  the  cart." 

*'  And  then  you  went  rattling  away  as  hard  as  you 
could  drive,  without  once  looking  behind  you  to  see 
how  all  the  articles  rode  in  the  chaise  !     I  do  think  you 


THE   HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  61 

must  have  been  a  little  too  gay  at  market,  Mr.  Otley," 
she  said  in  a  small  voice  ;  "  you  must  have  made  a  little 
too  free  with  some  of  your  coarse,  drinking  companions:" 
and  she  drew  herself  up. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  Lizzy ;  none  of  your  insinuations  !  I 
just  wetted  my  bargain,  as  everybody  should,  and  that 
was  all.     I'm  sorry  your  cap  is  tumbled." 

"Crushed,  spoiled,  abeemy,''  {query  abime?)  "as  Miss 
Mincing  says." 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  what :  it  is  a  sort  of  a  flashy  thing 
I  can't  abide  ;  and  I  had  rather  by  half  see  you  in  such 
a  cap  as  old  Dame  Foster  wears." 

"  My  love,  you  are  quite  uncivil :  you  have  quite  lost 
your  manners.  I  am  sure  you  are  saying  what  you  do 
not  think ;  and  I  am  sure  that  all  the  while  you  like  to 
see  your  wife  look  neat  and  genteel." 

"  Neat,  I  do,  and  neatness  is  gentility  enough  for 
me.  Come,  I'll  buy  you  a  new  cap  after  my  own 
fashion;  and  then  if  you  take  half  the  bows,  and  all  the 
flowers,  off"  this  queer  thing,"  and  he  held  the  cap  up 
aloft,  dangling  by  one  of  its  strings,  "  you  will  have  two 
decent  caps,  instead  of  one  out-of-the-way  concern." 

"  You  have  no  taste,  dear  Mr.  Otley  1"  said  poor 
Mrs.  Otley,  as  she  pinched,  and  pulled,  and  tried  to 
squeeze  the  unfortunate  cap  into  its  pristine  shape. 
Mr.  Otley  watched  her  as  she  put  her  head  first  on  this 
side,  then  on  that,  looking  distressfully  on  the  cap,  and 
every  now  and  then  giving  it  a  masterly  twitch. 

"Now,  what  puzzles  me,  Lizzy,  is,  when  you  look  to 
wearing  this  cap  ;  you  can't  go  to  church  in  it,  and  you 
can't  drive  out  in  the  cart  in  it ;  and  hang  me  if  I  know 
when  you  mean  to  put  it  on." 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Otley,  every  woman  should  have  some- 
thing decent  to  wear  if  visiters  should  come." 

"  I'm  sure  Farmer  Dobson  will  never  know  what  sort 
of  a  cap  you  bave  on  your  head,  and  Mr.  Higgins  is 
quite  a  plain  sort  of  a  man  ;  and  'tis  but  seldom  they 
call  in,  except  just  in  the  way  of  business." 

"  But  Mr.  Dobson  has  a  wife,  and  daughters  too," 
answered  Mrs.  Otley,  triumphantly ;  "  and  Mrs.  Hig- 

VOL.  II. — F 


6^  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

gins's  lace  veil,  last  Sunday,  was  quite  the  talk  of  the 
whole  church.  I  am  sure  1  heard  of  it  three  times  be- 
fore I  could  get  down  the  churchyard  and  into  our 
chaise  ;  and  I  saw  all  the  bonnets  moving  in  all  the 
pews  as  she  came  up  the  aisle  with  her  beautiful  veil 
hanging  down  almost  to  her  knees." 

Mr.  Otiey  had    nothing  to   reply;   and   Mrs.  Otley 
remained  in  possession  of  the  field. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Cancel  all  our  vows; 
And,  when  we  meet  at  any  lime  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Michael  Drayton. 

George  Wells  and  Jane  Dixon  had  been  asked  for 
the  last  time,  and  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  Wednes- 
day following.  George  Wells  had  not  again  visited 
the  family  of  the  Fosters.  His  mind  was  more  at  ease 
since  he  had  spoken  to  Susan;  but  he  found  that  the 
sight  of  her  meek  countenance,  the  sound  of  her  sweet 
voice,  and  the  recollection  of  former  days,  unsettled 
him.  Neither  did  Susan  desire  that  he  should  call  any 
more.  She  was  never  again  to  consider  him  but  as 
the  husband  of  another,  and  she  wished  for  time  to 
accustom  herself  to  this  idea  before  she  again  heard 
his  voice;  she  wished  to  school  and  calm  her  feelings, 
so  as  to  be  sure  her  heart  would  not  beat  when  she 
heard  his  step,  and  recognised  his  hand  upon  the 
latch. 

The  sun  rose  in  the  full  effulgence  of  a  September 
nnorning,  and  all  seemed  gay  in  the  village  of  Over- 
hurst:  the  children  were  all  sporting  in  and  out  of 
every  cottage  door;  the  bells  began  to  ring  a  merry 
peal  while  the  Fosters  were  yet  at  breakfast ;    and 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  63 

Betsey  Smith,  who  was  Jane's  particular  friend,  was 
seen  by  old  Sarah,  in  her  white  gown  and  her  new 
shawl  and  ribands,  carefully  picking  her  way  across 
the  road,  as  she  came  from  her  home  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  parish,  to  join  the  rest  of  the  party  at  the  Dixons. 
Susan  and  her  father  did  not  see  the  bridemaid  in  her 
gala  dress;  but  they  heard  the  merry  chimes  of  the 
bells,  and  Susan  with  difficulty  swallowed  the  cup  of 
tea  her  mother  had  prepared  for  her.  The  chime  of 
church  bells  is,  of  all  sounds,  that  which  conveys  the 
most  melancholy  or  the  most  joyous  impressions  to  the 
heart,  according  to  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
is  heard,  and  the  associations  with  wiiich  it  is  connected. 
If  the  feelings  are  not  in  accordance  with  their  peal, 
there  is  no  sound  so  unutterably,  so  unaccountably  sad 
as  that  of  a  merry  chime.  It  may  well  be  imagined 
that  to  Susan,  that  morning,  it  was  more  sad  than  a 
funereal  toll,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  the  ringers  re- 
laxed from  their  exertions.  Dame  Foster's  eyes  were 
frequently  turned  upon  her  daughter  with  increased 
tenderness. 

The  countenances  of  the  mother  and  of  the  daughter 
formed  a  singular  contrast.  The  old  woman,  who 
bore  her  bodily  sufferings  without  uttering  a  complaint 
— who  never  allowed  her  voice  to  fall  into  a  cadence, 
which  could  express  pain,  or  peevishness,  or  vexation, 
lest  she  should  grieve  the  two  objects  of  her  love — had, 
from  the  knou^ledge  that  they  could  not  read  her  looks, 
allowed  her  features  to  set  themselves  into  a  form  ex- 
pressive of  intense  agony  and  constant  anxiety.  Those 
of  the  daughter,  on  the  contrary,  who  was  aware  that 
her  feelings  might  be  the  subject  of  observation  to 
others  if  suffered  to  show  themselves  on  her  face,  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  varied  in  their  placidity.  She  knew  not 
when  her  mother  might  be  gazing  upon  her;  and, 
from  the  fear  of  grieving  her,  she  had  learned  to  wear 
a  gentle  smile,  whatever  might  be  her  mental  suf- 
ferings. 

The  village  noises  gradually  subsided.  Susan  felt 
that  the  wedding  had  drawn  off  the  idle  children  and 


64  THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 

the  village  loungers  in  another  direction.  Neither 
Nicholas  nor  Sarah  spoke.  There  was  no  sound  except 
the  incessant  and  buzzing  hum  of  the  autumn  flies  in 
the  sunny  window. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  day,  is  it  not,  mother  ?"  at  length 
inquired  Susan. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  a  beautiful  sunshiny  day,"  answered 
the  dame,  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh. 

"  I  thought  it  was,  for  the  flies  buzz  so.  I  am  glad 
of  it.  It  is  a  pity  when  a  wedding  comes  on  a  bad 
day.     I  hope  'tis  a  good  omen  for  poor  George  !" 

"  I  have  heard  say,  that  the  duller  the  day,  the 
brighter  the  marriage ;  not  but  what  I  wish  well  to 
George  and  his  wife." 

"  It  would  be  very  wrong  in  us  not  to  pray  for  his 
happiness,  mother ;  for  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against 
his  behaviour  to  me  from  first  to  last." 

"Jane  Dixon  is  a  lucky  girl.  He's  sure  to  make  a 
good  husband,  for  he  has  good  principles." 

"  And  he  her  first  lover  and  all,  too !"  replied  Susan. 
"  She  is  a  lucky  girl  !  I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  her, 
when  first  George  slighted  her  for  me ;  for  I  saw  she 
did  not  laugh  and  joke  with  him  as  she  did  with  the 
other  men.  Now  'tis  her  turn  to  be  sorry  for  me,  and 
perhaps  she  is,  though  she  has  given  up  calling  to  see 
me  almost  ever  since  I  have  been  afilicted.  But  it  was 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  when  she  began  to  think  of 
George  again.  That  was  one  thing  made  me  almost 
sure  what  would  come  to  pass  at  last." 

"  Why,  'twas  to  be  expected  that  things  should  fall 
out  much  as  they  have  done.  But  I  do  not  know  how 
it  was,  when  I  found  George  seem  so  attentive  and  so 
constant  for  such  a  long  time,  I  thought,  mayhap,  he 
would  always  go  on  as  he  did  then.  I  believe  it 
is  the  way  with  parents,  they  can't  help  fancying  their 
own  children  something  beyond  other  people's;  and 
so  I  began  to  count  George  would  never  be  looking 
out  for  anybody  else.  However,  'tis  my  belief  he 
will  never  love  Jane  Dixon  as  he  has  loved  my 
Susan." 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  65 

«'  If  he  does  not  yet,  mother,  he  will  soon.  George 
will  be  sure  to  love  his  wife,  and  he  will  grow  to  love 
her  better  and  better  every  day,  and  then  he  will  quite 
forget  me ;  but  that  is  all  as  it  should  be.  Do  you 
think,  mother,  I  shall  ever  forget  him  ?  I  mean  to  try 
hard  to  do  so ;  and  I  don't  mean  to  talk  over  w^hat  has 
gone  before,  even  with  you,  mother;  and  then  do  you 
think  at  last,  mother,  I  shall  quite  forget  to  think  of 
him,  except  as  a  friend  ?" 

"  I  hope  you  may,  my  child  ;  but  it  is  always  harder 
for  a  woman  to  forget  than  it  is  for  a  man :  and  'tis 
harder  still  for  you,  who  have  nothing  to  draw  off  your 
mind.  1  have  often  heard  old  folks  say,  that  scarce 
anybody  marries  their  first  love  ;  and,  if  that  is  true, 
many  and  many  must  have  got  over  such  things.  But 
1  can't  justly  say  myself,  for  I  never  kept  company 
with  anybody  but  your  father,  and  we  have  been  mar- 
ried so  long  that  I  can't  frame  to  myself  a  notion  of 
anything  but  being  his  wife." 

Susan  sighed.  "And  that's  just  what  I  used  to  feel 
about  George ;  and  I  always  thought  he  and  1  should 
be  just  such  another  couple  as  you  and  father." 

Susan  had  indulged  herself  in  thinking  and  speaking 
of  George  as  her  lover,  till  the  images  of  the  past  had 
usurped  the  place  of  the  realities  of  the  present.  The 
growing  hum  of  voices  struck  her  quick  ear.  The 
village  was  all  alive  again.  The  shouts  of  children 
and  the  steps  of  passers-by  recalled  her  to  herself,  and 
painfully  dispelled  the  recollections  which  had  taken 
possession  of  her  mind.  It  was  over,  and  he  was  now 
the  husband  of  another ;  and  she  felt  wicked  in  having 
given  way  to  such  thoughts. 

"  Mother,  we  must  not  say  any  more.  The  time  is 
come  when  it  is  not  enough  for  me  to  put  a  guard  upon 
my  words  and  my  actions  ;  I  must  now  set  a  watch 
over  my  thoughts.  I  do  not  often  talk  as  I  have  done 
to-day;  and  I  (elt  as  if  it  would  do  me  good  to  speak  of 
liim  once  more :  but  there's  an  end  now." 

Towards  the  afternoon  the  bridal  party  paraded  the 
humble  street,  as  is  the  custom  among  the  peasantry. 

f2 


6b  THE    HAMPSHIRE   COTTAGE, 

The  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  the  bridemaids  and 
bridemen,  dressed  in  their  holyday  apparel,  and  paired 
for  the  day,  perambulated  the  most  frequented  parts  of 
Overhurst ;  the  laughing  blushing  bride  received  the 
hearty,  if  not  refined,  congratulations  of  her  neigh- 
bours ;  and,  probably,  among  some  of  the  wedding 
guests,  the  foundations  were  laid  for  another  festival  of 
the  same  kind. 

George  had  as  much  as  possible  curtailed  the  usual 
march  of  the  little  procession,  and  had  contrived  that 
only  once  did  they  pass  before  Master  Foster's  cottage. 
He  was  ashamed  on  his  wedding-day  to  say  he  wished 
to  avoid  that  part  of  the  village,  and  yet  his  heart  sunk 
within  him  as  he  approached  it.  He  almost  rejoiced 
for  a  moment  that  Susan  could  not  see  the  merry  troop  ; 
and,  as  he  passed,  he  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  in  that 
direction. 

Mary  remarked  that  day  that  Jane  was  all  joy  and 
smiles,  as  would  have  befitted  the  bridegroom,  while 
George's  downcast  looks  would  better  have  suited  the 
bride. 

Dame  Foster  was  at  her  window,  and  saw  the  party 
advancing.     Sus;in  heard  them  almost  before  her  mo- 
ther perceived  them,  and  inquired  if  the  wedding  pro- 
cession was  not  passing.     Her  mother  answered  in  the 
affirmative  ;  and  could  not  help  adding,  that  she  had 
not  believed  George  would  be  so  unfeeling. 
"Do  you  see  him,  mother?" 
"Yes,,  there  he  is,  Susan,  sure  enough  !" 
"Oh,  mother,  how  does  he  look?     1   gave  him   a 
handkerchief  two  years  ago  last  summer,  and  he  said 
he   should  keep  it  for  his  wedding-day.     He  has  not 
got  that  on,  sure  ?" 

"  'Tis  a  checked  brown  and  yellow  he  wears  round 
his  neck." 

"  No  I  'twas  a  spotted  blue  I  gave  him." 
"  Poor  fellow  !"  exclaimed  the  dame,  in  a  more  kindly 
tone;  "he  holds  down  his  head,  and  now  he  looks  the 
Other  way, — quite  away  from  his  bride,  up  the  hilL 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAOE.  67 

Poor  fellow  !  he  can't  bear  to  turn  this  way  after  all. 
I'll  be  bound  he  does  feel  it !" 

"Jane  must  know  all  that  has  been  between  him 
and  me,"  said  Susan,  with  some  bitterness  ;  "  and  I  do 
think  she  need  not  have  led  him  this  way  neither  1  But 
1  am  glad  you  have  seen  him,  mother.  I  like  to  know 
how  he  looks,  for  I  may  still  wish  him  well."  Susan's 
fingers  resumed  their  knitting,  and  the  dame  proceeded 
with  her  darning. 

George  would  have  silenced  their  merriment,  had  he 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  do  so  ;  but  a  peasant 
bridegroom  is  of  all  creatures  the  most  awkward,  the 
most  shamefaced  ;  far  from  bearing  himself  as  the 
man  who  has  won  the  prize  he  sought,  he  has  the  air 
of  one  who  has  been  fairly  caught  in  the  snare,  and 
has  no  longer  a  chance  of  escape. 

George,  however,  felt  it  impossible  to  march  again, 
as  it  were  in  triumph,  by  Susan's  door;  he  led  Jane 
the  back  way  into  the  village.  It  was  nearly  the  same 
path  he  had  taken  the  day  he  had  told  Susan  of  his 
marriage  ;  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  Jane  did  not  find 
her  George  the  more  gay  or  the  more  tender  for  being 
removed  from  the  observation  of  others.  Presently 
the  sounds  of  gay  voices  grew  once  more  upon  the  ear 
as  the  party  returned  on  their  steps. 

Dame  Foster  again  put  down  her  spectacles,  and 
gazed  through  the  window.  "  God  bless  him  1"  she 
exclaimed  ;  "  he  could  not  stand  it  again,  and  he  is  not 
with  the  rest." 

"Not  gone  away  and  left  Jane?"  inquired  Susan,  in 
a  tone  of  alarm  ;  "  that  would  not  be  right." 

"No,  no,  she's  gone  too.  I  warrant  me  they've 
taken  the  back  way  round  to  Master  Dixon's,  and  I 
like  him  all  the  better."  The  dame  felt  more  in  cha- 
rity with  him  than  she  had  done  a  few  minutes  before ; 
and  Susan  was  gratified,  and  yet  grieved,  that  George 
should  not  be  thoroughly  happy.  "  He  will  be  so  soon," 
she  thought,  however;  and  so  he  was. 

"  He  enjoyed  the  comforts  of  a  tidy  home,  a  blazing 
fire,  a  warm  supper,  and  a  smiling  wife  to  greet  him 


68  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

on  his  return  from  work.  His  days  were  occupied  in 
his  accustomed  labour;  his  after-hours  were  filled  up 
by  cultivating  his  garden;  and  the  helpmate  who  re- 
ceived him  kindly,  and  provided  him  with  comforts, 
became  daily  more  endeared  to  him.  The  birth  of  a 
child  gave  him  a  fresh  object  of  interest,  and  George 
was  a  happy  man. 

Susan  also  was  calm,  if  not  happy.  He  was  an- 
other woman's  husband — he  was  a  married  man — and 
all  was  over  for  her.  The  barrier  was  so  entirely  in- 
superable that  her  feelings  did  change,  that  she  did 
learn  to  think  of  him  merely  as  of  a  kind  friend,  and 
that  the  past  did  at  length  appear  to  her  only  as  a 
dream. 


CHAPTER  X. 

And  now,  their  wanderings  o'er, 
They,  mid  imbowering  trees,  descry  their  home  once  more. 
Home — thrilling  sound  !     To  the  time-sobered  breast, 

1  hronged  with  remembrances,  not  sweet  alone, 
But  sacred,  and  with  sadder  thoughts  impress'd 

Of  cherished  sorrows,  and  dear  hopes  o'erthrown  ; 
While  to  young  hearts,  that  yet  have  onl}'  known 

The  heyday  joys  and  buoyancy  of  spring. 
It  speaks  of  happiness  again  their  own  : 

Of  throbbing  bosoms,  bright  eyes  glistening, 

And  laughter's  merry  peal,  that  through  the  hall  shall  ring. 

Unpublished  Potms. 

Three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  Mowbrays  had 
left  Overhurst,  and  all  the  parish  was  now  jovfuHy  ex- 
pecting their  return.  Aeain  the  village  bells  rang  a 
joyful  peal,  a^ain  the  village  children  shouted,  and  all 
was  animation  in  Overhurst  and  at  the  Park. 

Susan  was  the  first  to  hear  the  carriage  wheels.. 
"  Yes,  sure  enough,  here  they  are  !"  said  her  mother  y 
"  three  carriages  full:  and  such  a  load,  and  the  horses 
so  jaded,  poor  things !      And  there's  Mrs.  Mowbray 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  69 

nodding  as  she  goes  along  ;  and  there's  Miss  Fanny — 
no — why,  I  declare  if  it  is  not  Miss  Emma,  with  her 
head  quite  out  of  the  window.  Well,  I'm  glad  enough 
to  see  them  all  come  home  again.  And  there's  the 
'squire  on  the  box ;  he  turns  round  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Mowbray;  he  looks  hearty  still.  And  there  is  such  a 
queer  foreigner  behind,  with  such  black  whiskers.  And 
sure  that  can  never  be  Jenny  Simpson  ?  Her  very 
face  seems  Frenchified  !  I'll  be  bound  her  own  mother 
will  hardly  know  Jenny  when  she  sees  her."  Not  long 
afterward  the  dame's  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  the 
window.  "  Why,  sure,  there  can't  be  another  carriage 
full  of  them  !  Why.  if  it  is  not  Captain  and  Mrs.  Har- 
court  I  And  there  is  the  baby  I  May  the  Lord  bless 
them  all  !  It  will  be  a  happy  evening  at  Overhurst 
Paik  I"  Dame  Foster  sighed  while  she  rejoiced  in 
their  happiness. 

And  heartfelt  joy  and  social  gayety  did  reign  in  Over- 
hurst Park.  The  delight  of  finding  themselves  again  in 
Old  England,  the  joy  of  meeting  after  a  long  separation, 
the  raptures  of  Mrs.  Mowbray  over  her  first  grandchild, 
the  pleasure  of  visiting  their  old  haunts,  occupied  the 
ladies  for  the  first  day  or  two ;  but  Mr.  Mowbray  had 
been  looking  about  him,  and  had  made  himself  acquainted 
with  all  the  village  gossip. 

On  the  third  day  after  their  return,  he  bustled  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  his  wife  and  daughters  were  ea- 
gerly displaying  to  Alice  and  Captain  Harcouri  their 
relics  from  the  various  places  they  had  visited  in  their 
travels,  and  were  explaining  the  exact  point  of  view  from 
which  such  a  drawing  had  been  made,  or  directing  their 
attention  to  an  invisible  dot  in  a  pencil  sketch,  which 
stood  for  '  imperial  Rome'  in  the  distance,  or  helping  out 
by  descriptions  viva  voce  the  tints  which  did  not  express 
the  roseate  hues  of  evening  upon  the  glaciers. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  all  the  pretty  women  in  the 
parish  have  been  thinking  of  while  we  have  been  away," 
interrupted  Mr.  Mowbray.  "  There's  poor  Susan  Fos- 
ter !  ilave  you  heard,  my  dear,  about  poor  Susan 
Foster  ?" 


70  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  ^ 

"  No,  indeed.  I  have  been  so  occupied  with  Alice  and 
her  baby,  and  so  full  of  our  own  travels,  I  have  not  had 
time  to  go  into  the  village.  What  has  happened  ?  You 
quite  alarm  me." 

*'  Why,  1  really  am  put  out  about  it  myself.  She  is  gone 
blind  !  Pretty  Susan,  with  the  bright  eyes  !  I  am  quite 
vexed.  If  it  had  been  any  other  girl  in  the  village,  I 
should  not  have  felt  it  so  much.  Those  soft  brilliant 
eyes,  tha4:  could  sparkle  so  merrily  too  I  And  then,  that 
pretty  Mrs.  Otley  !  she  is  going  into  a  consumption." 

"  Susan — Susan  Foster  blind  !"  exclaiujed  the  ladies 
all  together. 

"Impossible!"  cried  Mrs.  Harcourt  —  the  hopeful, 
happy,  Mrs.  Harcourt. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  my  dear  Alice  :  she  is  blind !  and 
what's  more,  George  Wells  has  jilted  her,  and  has  mar- 
ried Jane  Dixon.  The  fellow  has  some  taste,  1  will  say 
that  for  him.  She  was  as  fine  a  girl  as  ever  I  saw, 
though  hers  is  not  such  a  high  style  of  beauty  as  Susan 
Foster's.  Susan  Foster,  if  she  had  been  a  lady,  would 
have  looked  well  anywhere  ;  now,  Jane  Dixon  would 
never  have  told  in  a  ball-room :  and  then,  she  is  so  al- 
tered ;  she  is  grown  course  ;  and  blue  eyes  soon  lose 
their  blueness  and  turn  gray,  while  black  eyes  retain 
their  brilliancy — " 

Mr.  Mowbray  might  have  proceeded  at  greater  length 
in  discussing  the  comparative  merits  of  black  eyes  and 
blue,  but  neither  filial  piety  nor  conjugal  devotion  could 
enable  the  listeners  to  keep  silence  any  longer.  "  Oh, 
papa !"  exclaimed  Alice,  "  George  Wells  married  to 
another  girl !  and  Susan  Foster  blind,  and  jilted  !  and  I 
had  fancied  her  so  happy  in  that  cottage  close  to  her 
parents  !  I  remember  begging  you  so  to  let  them  have 
it,  because  I  thought  how  1  should  like  to  live  close  to 
you  and  mamma  I" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Alice  I  I  have  seen  Susan  myself; 
and  there  she  sits  knitting,  by  the  side  of  her  blind 
father.  I  declare  it  was  almost  too  much  for  me.  I  got 
away  as  quickly  as  I  could,  for  I  hate  seeing  sad  sights 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  71 

when  one  can  do  no  good :  I  always  make  it  a  rule  to 
get  out  of  the  way." 

"  But  do  you  think  it  impossible  we  should  be  able  to 
do  her  any  good  ?  Let  us  go  and  see  them,  mamma ; 
perhaps  we  may  think  of  something.  1  always  was  so 
fond  of  Susan,  and  we  were  to  be  married  the  same 
month  !     Poor  dear  Susan  !" 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  cried  Emma  ;  "  at  all  events  it  will  please 
them.  Old  Nicholas  used  to  be  so  fond  of  me.  How 
well  I  remember  he  used  to  put  his  hand  upon  my  head 
to  feel  how  much  I  w^as  grown  !  Do  let  us  go  directly, 
and  pay  them  a  visit,  dear  mamma." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  was  shocked  and  grieved  at  Mr.  Mow- 
bray's intelligence,  and  the  whole  party  was  soon  in 
motion  along  the  well-known  paths. 

"  I  wonder  how  Susan  looks  !"  said  Emma,  in  a  low 
voice,  while  a  sensation  of  awe  stole  over  her  youthful 
mind  at  the  prospect  of  an  interview  with  a  person  who 
had  undergone  a  great  misfortune  since  she  had  seen  her 
last. 

Dame  Foster  soon  recognised  the  visiters  she  had 
been  watching  for.  "  Here  they  are  !"  she  exclaimed  ; 
"  I  was  sure  Mrs.  Mowbray  would  come  and  ask  after 
us  before  long.  And  there's  Miss  Alice — Mrs.  Harcourt 
I  should  say — looks  prettier  than  ever ; — and  Miss 
Fanny  !  I'm  sure  she  does  not  seem  as  if  any  thing  had 
ever  been  the  matter  with  her; — and  Miss  Emma,  why 
she  is  almost  a  woman  now."  Susan  sighed,  and  thought 
what  sad  changes  had  taken  place  in  her  fate  since  last 
they  had  received  a  visit  from  the  'squire's  family. 

As  they  approached  the  little  garden  gate,  the  bear- 
ing of  all  the  party  became  subdued  and  saddened  ;  and 
they  gently  opened  the  door,  and  followed  each  other  qui- 
etly into  the  cottage.  The  dame  and  Susan  both  rose,  and 
Susan  courtesied,  but  not  exactly  in  the  direction  in  which 
Mrs.  Mowbray  stood.  She  soon  made  fhem  resume 
their  seats,  and  then  inquired  after  old  Sarah's  health. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  madam,  I  am  still  able  to  get 
about,  though  sometimes  1  think  my  pains  make  me  grow 
weaker;  but  1  must  try  to  the  last  to  do  for  these  poor 


72  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

afflicted  creatures,  madam.  You  have  heard,  I  dare  say, 
madam,  of  all  our  misfortunes.  And  there's  my  poor 
girl  now,  no  better  otf  than  her  old  father.  But  'tis  as 
pleases  God,  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  murmur." 

The  old  dame  had  at  once  entered  upon  the  subject  in 
the  plain,  direct  manner  usual  to  the  poor,  and  the 
restraint  which  mi^ht  have  rendered  such  a  meetino;  dis- 
tressing  among  the  higher  orders  was  soon  dispelled. 

"  My  poor  Susan  !"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  going  up  to 
Susan,  and  taking  her  by  the  hand,  "  I  have  only  this 
moment  heard  of  your  afflictions,  or  I  should  have  been 
here  sooner.  I  wonder  such  sad  news  should  not  have 
reached  me  abroad  :  but  the  death  of  poor  Mr.  Sandford 
has  been  a  loss  to  us  all.  He  knew  my  village  friends, 
and  he  would  have  told  me  about  you.  And  you,  Nicho- 
las, how  are  you  ?"  How  do  you  bear  up  against  these 
trials?" 

"  Pretty  middling,  madam — pretty  middling :  I  am 
quite  used  to  my  own,  and  I  don't  think  any  thing  at  all 
about  them  ;  but  I  can't  say  I  have  rightly  got  over  hear- 
ing my  poor  girl  ask  her  mother  whether  'tis  a  fine  day 
or  not,  or  who  it  is  going  by  the  door,  and  whether  her 
shawl  is  pinned  straight,  or  her  cap  as  it  should  be.  Them 
things  go  hard  with  me.  But,  as  my  good  w'oman  says, 
'tis  as  it  pleases  the  Lord  !  Are  all  tlie  young  ladies  with 
you,  madam  ?"  he  added,  after  a  short  pause.  "  I  war- 
rant me  they  are  grown  very  tall,"  and  he  stretched  out 
his  hand :  "  1  should  like  to  put  my  hand  on  Miss  Em- 
ma's head  once  more,  bless  her  heart !" 

"  You  must  put  it  a  good  deal  higher,"  said  Emma,  as 
the  old  man  was  feeling  at  the  same  height  he  had  been 
used  to  feel,  three  years  before  ;  and  she  took  his  brown 
withered  hand  and  lifted  it  to  the  crown  of  her  head. 

"  Sure  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  almost  childish  wonderment. 

Alice  meanwhile  had  been  talking  to  Susan,  and  had 
extracted  from  her  some  account  of  the  mode  in  which 
her  eyes  had  been  attacked,  although  it  was  with  pain 
she  was  brought  to  allude  to  any  thing  connected  with 
Alice's  wedding-day  and  the  happiness  which  at  that 
time  was  hers.     She  could  not  help  an  inward  shudder 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  73 

when  she  heard  Captain  Harcourt  address  }iis  wife : 
"Alice,  my  love,  I  think  you  should  return  home  to  the 
baby  ;  I  would  not  have  you  out  too  late."  The  pic- 
ture of  home  happiness,  wedded  love,  maternal  affection, 
all  the  visions  in  which  she  had  indulged  as  almost  reali- 
ties on  that  day,  rushed  over  her  mind  ;  but  she  remem- 
bered that  George  was  the  husband  of  another,  that 
another  was  the  mother  of  his  child  ! 

When  they  returned  home,  Alice  eagerly  recounted 
to  Mr,  Mowbray  an  instance  of  a  person,  whose  blind- 
ness had  been  described  as  somewhat  resembling  Susan's 
having  been  restored  to  sight  by  an  oculist  with  whom 
Captain  Harcourt  was  acquainted.  With  the  sanguine 
disposition  of  youth,  she  felt  convinced  that  something 
might  be  done ;  that  Susan  need  not  be  condemned  to 
perpetual  blindness. 

The  more  sober  part  of  the  company  did  not  enter 
quite  so  warmly  into  Alice's  hopes,  but  all  were  equally 
ardent  in  their  wishes  that  Susan  might  recover  her  sight. 
Captain  Harcourt's  friends  had  the  care  of  an  eye  hos- 
pital :  so  that  Alice  declared  it  would  be  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  secure  Susan's  admission,  and  the 
most  certain  thing  in  the  world  that  she  would  be  imme- 
diately cured.  The  only  difficulty  that  remained  was  to 
get  over  the  prejudice  entertained  by  many  of  the  poor 
against  hospitals  in  general,  and  the  horror  they  had  of 
parting  from  their  friends. 

"  But  Dame  Foster  is  so  reasonable  !"  exclaimed  Alice ; 
*'  and  Nicholas  is  so  quiet,  he  will  never  oppose  it ;  and 
as  for  Susan,  what  would  one  not  do  to  recover  one's 
sight  ?  To  be  sure,  her  lover  is  married  now,  and  even 
the  restoration  of  her  sight  cannot  restore  her  to  happi- 
ness, poor  thing !  But  still,  think  of  the  joy  of  seeing 
the  blue  heavens  and  the  green  fields  again  !" 

"Oh  yes,  dear  Alice,"  answered  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "  if 
we  could  indeed  restore  to  Susan  her  eyesight,  she  might 
look  forward  to  many  happy  years.  She  is  still  young, 
and  she  is  so  pretty,  that  I  dare  say  she  may  yet  marry 
comfortably." 

"  Oh,  mamma!"  exclaimed  Alice  reproachfully. 

VOL.  n. — G 


74  THE  HAMPSHIRE   COTTAQEi 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  shocked  you,  my  love  !  and  if 
you  wish  it  so  much,  we  will  suppose  that  Susan  shall 
never  marry," 

"  Mamma,  you  speak  as  if  marrying  was  marrying,  and 
as  if  it  did  not  signify  whom  one  married/' 

"  Not  exactly,  my  dear !  but  I  do  imagine  it  just  pos- 
sible that  after  a  certain  number  of  years  have  elapsed, 
a  woman  may  be  happy  with  a  man  who  has  not  her 
first  love.  But  now  we  will  not  disturb  ourselves  con- 
cerning the  use  Susan  may  make  of  her  eyes  when  they 
are  restored  to  her.  We  will  first  adopt  all  possible 
means  to  accomplish  this  most  desirable,  but,  I  fear,  im- 
probable event." 

"  She  has  had  no  advice  yet  but  that  ignorant  man's 
at  Turnholme.  Captain  Harcourt  shall  write  to-day, 
and  the  moment  we  get  the  answer,  I  will  undertake  to 
persuade  Susan  and  her  parents  to  consent  to  our  pro- 
posal." 

All  prospered  according  to  Alice's  wishep.  Her  pro- 
tegee was  to  be  admitted  into  the  hospital,  where  she  was 
to  meet  with  every  kindness  and  attention.  Susan  gladly 
agreed  to  any  plan  which  might  possibly  enable  her  to 
assist  her  parents  more  effectually  than  she  could  at 
present :  old  Nicholas  thought  it  so  "  against  nature"  that 
the  young  should  be  afflicted  like  the  old,  that  he  was 
pleased  and  hopeful,  while  Sarah  assented,  but  assented 
despond  ingly. 

"If  it  is  God's  will  our  poor  child  should  be  blind,  why 
there  is  no  use  in  man's  fighting  against  Providence. 
However,  there's  no  saying  these  may  not  be  the  means 
by  which  God  has  ordained  she  is  to  be  cured  ;  so  it  is 
not  for  us  poor  mortals  to  say  any  thing  against  it :  we 
will  try,  and  hope  for  the  best;  but  it  is  an  awful  thing  to 
have  our  blind  child  go  quite  away  from  us  to  that  great 
town." 

"  But  we  will  send  somebody  with  her,  dame,  who  shall 
see  her  safe  into  the  hospital." 

"  Thank  you,  madam,  you  are  very  good  ;  and  let  it 
turn  out  which  way  it  will,  we  shall  always  be  grateful." 

The  evening  before  Susan's  departure,  Farmer  Otley 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  75 

called.  "  I  thought  I  would  just  look  in  and  wish  you 
good  luck,  Susan  ;  we  shall  all  be  heartily  glad  to  hear  of 
your  doing  well,  though  my  good  woman  will  miss  your 
nice  worsted-work.  She  would  have  come  down  to  see 
you  too,  but  that  she  is  not  quite  as  she  should  be.  She 
has  got  a  nasty  cough  that  keeps  plaguing  her.  I  tell  her 
'tis  because  she  will  wear  such  smart  thin  shawls,  instead 
of  a  good  warm  cloak  ;  but  young  women  they  will  have 
their  own  way  ;  I  dare  say  you  have  a  way  of  your  own, 
too,  Susan,  though  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

Susan  smiled.  "1  believe  I  was  as  headstrong  as 
other  young  folks  once  ;  but  a  poor  helpless  creature  like 
me,  who  is  quite  dependent  upon  mother's  goodness,  has 
no  business  with  any  fancies  now," 

"  Well,  Susan,  1  hope  you  will  come  back  with  a  will 
of  your  own,  that's  all :  and  I  dare  say,  dame,  you  won't 
mind  1" 

"  My  poor  Susan  !  I  should  be  glad  enough,  indeed,  to 
see  her  own  sprightly  self  again ;  and  'tis  our  duty  not 
to  throw  away  any  opportunity  that  God  puts  in  our 
way." 

Susan  was  safely  conveyed  to  the  hospital ;  and  from 
thence  the  reports,  which  were  received  by  Mrs.  Har- 
court,  and  duly  transmitted  to  Nicholas  and  Sarah  Foster, 
were  satisfactory.  The  hopeful  Alice  was  not  disap- 
pointed in  her  eager  desire  to  serve  Susan ;  and  before 
six  weeks  had  elapsed,  she  was  able  to  run  breathless  to 
the  cottage  of  the  Fosters,  with  the  surgeon's  letter  in  her 
hand,  announcing  that  Susan's  sight  was  safe,  and  that  in 
another  month  she  might  return  to  her  friends  in  health 
and  happiness. 

Old  Sarah  clasped  her  hands  in  speechless  joy ;  the 
tears  rolled  in  torrents  unheeded  down  her  face  ;  her 
soul  was  absorbed  in  prayer.  Old  Nicholas  groped 
about  till  he  found  Mrs.  Ilcircourt's  hand  ;  and  seizing 
it,  the  old  man  suddenly  fell  on  his  trembling  knees 
before  her. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  young  lady,  and  God  reward 
you  !  I  know  it  is  to  God  we  first  owe  our  gratitude  ;  but 
you  have  been  the  blessed  instrument  in  his  hands.     God 


7G  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

bless  you  !"  and  the  old  man  sobbed  aloud.  Alice,  inex- 
pressibly distressed  and  affected,  assisted  him  to  rise, 
replaced  him  in  his  seat,  extricated  her  hand  from  his 
grasp,  and  hastened  away  from  a  scene,  which,  although 
delightful,  was  almost  too  overcoming. 

At  length  Susan  herself  wrote  to  them  ;  it  was  the  first 
act  of  her  restored  sight ;  and  the  dame  placed  the  letter 
before  her  on  the  deal  table,  with  her  prayer-book  and 
her  spectacles,  and  every  day  did  she  look  at  it,  and  every 
day  did  she  read  it  over,  word  by  word,  to  Nicholas,  and 
every  day  did  Nicholas  say,  "  God  bless  Miss  Alice  that 
was !" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

M^ise  Nature  is  less  partial  in  her  love 

Than  ye  do  judge  withal.     When  lavishly 

She  pours  her  gifts  profuse,  satiety 

Doth  blunt  the  sense  :  when  sparingly  dispensed, 

A  keener  relish  doth  supply  the  measure  ; 

And  but  to  live  and  see  the  blessed  skies 

(A  good  unmarked,  unheeded,  till  'tis  lost), 

Is  rapture  all  too  big  for  utterance 

To  one  long  shut  from  heaven's  light. 

Unpublished  Poems. 

It  was  a  joyful  day  in  Overhurst  when  Susan  Foster 
returned  to  her  home.  The  old  man  and  his  wife  had 
toddled  up  to  the  village  inn,  where  the  coach  stopped  ; 
and  there  they  stood,  Sarah  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of 
her,  Nicholas  to  hear  the  first  sound  of  her  voice.  Many 
a  head  was  popped  out  of  a  casement  window,  and  many 
a  doorway  w'as  thronged  with  its  inhabitants,  at  the  hour 
when  the  coach  usually  arrived.  George  Wells  was 
lingering  in  a  field  hard  by,  occasionally  looking  over  the 
stile.  He  had  twice  called  upon  the  Fosters  during 
Susan's  absence,  and  had  inquired,  in  an  awkward,  hur- 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  it 

ried  manner,  how  she  was.  The  inquiry  was  meant 
kindly,  and  it  was  taken  kindly. 

The  coach  drove  up  to  the  little  inn,  and  out  sprang 
Susan,  blooming  and  lovely  as  ever.  The  old  woman 
nearly  fainted  ;  and  the  neighbours  assisted  her  and  the 
trembling  Nicholas  into  the  little  parlour  of  the  inn. 

In  about  half  an  hour,  Susan  was  seen  supporting  the 
feeble  steps  of  her  mother  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
those  of  her  father,  down  the  village  street,  to  her  own 
dear  home.  George  Wells  had  disappeared ;  and  the 
other  neighbours  did  not  intrude  upon  the  sacred  joy  of 
that  family  party. 

"  Oh,  mother,  did  we  ever  expect  to  be  so  happy  I" 
exclaimed  Susan,  as  they  entered  the  little  garden.  "  And 
there  is  my  own  moss-rose  blowing !" — a  slight  pang 
shot  through  her,  for  George  had  given  her  the  tree  :  but 
she  was  too  happy,  too  grateful,  to  allow  any  but  feelings 
of  thankfulness  to  find  a  place  in  her  heart. 

With  what  eagerness  did  Susan  hasten  to  busy  herself 
about  the  household  duties  !  with  what  pleasure  did  she 
resume  her  former  privilege  of  settling  her  father  in  his 
seat,  of  preparing  the  supper,  of  assisting  her  father  up- 
stairs I  She  had  thought  the  first  sight  of  the  heavens 
glorious,  she  had  gazed  with  rapture  on  the  face  of  na- 
ture, she  had  recognised  with  tenderness  each  well- 
known  spot  of  her  youthful  home  ;  but  all  these  had  been 
but  lesser  joys  in  comparison  with  that  of  once  more 
ministering  to  the  comfort  of  her  parents,  after  having 
so  long  been  only  a  burden  to  them.  Never  were 
prayers  of  more  heartfelt  gratitude  oftered  up  to  the 
throne  of  Grace  than  those  of  the  Foster  family  that 
night. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Susan  repaired  to  Overhurst 
Park,  to  make  her  acknowledgments  to  her  benefac- 
tors ;  and  as  she  walked  alone  through  those  paths  where 
she  had  so  often  wandered  with  George,  which  she  had 
never  beheld  since  she  had  seen  them  with  him,  did  not 
the  memory  of  former  days  come  over  her  with  almost 
overwhelming  power  ?  She  thought  of  him  certainly, 
but  she  thought  of  him  as  the  contented  husband  of 
o2 


78  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

another ;  and  after  having  drunk  so  deeply  of  the  bit- 
ter cup  of  affliction,  her  present  comparative  happi- 
ness seemed  as  great  as  mortals  might  dare  to  hope 
for  in  this  world.  She  looked  with  kindly  feelings  on 
all  around  her.  There  was  no  touch  of  bitterness  in  her 
emotions. 

Farmer  Otley  was  one  of  the  first  to  welcome  Susan 
home  again.  He  told  her  his  wife  was  still  very  poorly, 
"  and  that  she  would  take  it  very  kind"  if  Susan  would 
step  up  and  pay  her  a  visit  some  evening  at  Holmy- 
bank. 

"  Well,  Susan,"  he  said,  "  1  need  not  be  fetching  you 
any  more  worsted  from  Turnholme  now.  You  won't 
send  me  to  market  any  more.  Those  eyes  of  yours  can 
see  to  take  up  your  old  trade  again.  I  dare  say  my 
mistress  will  have  some  needlework  for  you,  for  she  is  a 
rare  bad  hand  at  plain  work  herself." 

A  few  days  after  Susan's  return,  she  was  employed  in 
tying  up  some  straggling  flowers,  and  in  winding  the 
honeysuckle  round  the  porch,  enjoying  the  long  untasted 
pleasure  of  attending  to  her  little  garden,  when,  on  look- 
ing round,  she  saw  George  Wells  loitering  under  the 
hedge  of^  the  field  which  we  have  often  described  as 
being  opposite  Master  Foster's  house. 

Upon  finding  himself  observed,  George  made  a  sud- 
den effort,  and  leaping  the  stile,  he  crossed  the  road, 
came  straight  up  to  Susan,  and,  before  she  had  time  to 
collect  herself,  he  had  taken  her  hand,  shaken  it,  and  had 
hastily  uttered — 

"  1  just  came  to  tell  you  I  was  heartily  glad  you  had 
got  your  eyesight  back  again,  Susan  ;  and  to  wish  you 
health  and  happiness,  Susan :  that's  all :"  and  he  was  gone. 

Susan  trembled  all  over ;  she  tottered  back  into  the 
cottage,  and  sat  down. 

"  1  have  just  seen  him,  mother,  for  the  first  time  these 
three  years  I  But  it  was  not  so  much  the  seeing  him,  as 
the  hearing  his  voice  again.  It  has  put  me  quite  in  a 
tremble  ;  but  I  shan't  mind  it  another  time.  I  must  not 
mind  it,  you  know,  mother ;  and  I  am  so  happy,  oh !  so 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  79 

very  happy  to  be  able  to  do  for  you  and  father,  that  I  do 
not  feel  as  if  I  had  any  thing  left  to  wish  for !" 

In  a  few  days  Susan  paid  her  promised  visit  to  Mrs. 
Otley,  and  she  found  her  indeed  sadly  altered.  She 
passed  through  the  kitchen  where  all  bore  the  marks  of 
the  mistress's  eye  being  wanted  :  a  servant-girl  in  greasy 
papiUofes,  the  children  in  smart  frocks,  but  with  un- 
washed faces ;  the  copper  vessels,  instead  of  being  the 
pride  of  the  housewife  and  of  her  assistants,  all  out  of 
their  places ;  the  floor,  as  if  it  had  not  been  swept  and 
sanded  for  a  week.  The  slipshod  maid,  with  a  dirty 
apron  ushered  Susan  into  the  parlour  within,  where  Mrs. 
Otley  sat  in  a  shabby-genteel  armchair,  cowering  over 
the  fire,  although  it  was  in  June. 

Her  cheeks  were  sunk,  and  there  was  a  hectic  flush 
upon  them  which  alarmed  Susan  ;  her  voice  sounded 
hollow.  The  smart  cap,  of  which  we  have  already 
made  mention,  had  now  fallen  from  being  a  "  dress  cap" 
into  being  an  "  every-day  cap,"  a  purpose  for  which  it 
was  peculiarly  unfitted.  Its  weak  wires,  and  its  heavy 
ribands,  shook  in  a  most  unseemly  manner  as  the  sick 
woman  restlessly  moved  her  head.  She  laid  down  the 
well-thumbed  novel  she  was  reading  :  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you,  Susan,"  she  said.  "Why  you  look  surprisingly  well, 
as  blooming  as  a  rose.  Mr.  Otley  told  me  how  well  you 
were,  and  he  said  your  eyes  were  as  black  as  sloes  :  I  was 
quite  curious  to  see  you.  Sit  down,  Susan,  and  tell  me 
all  about  it."  But  before  Susan  could  begin  to  speak, 
Mrs.  Otley  continued — "  I  am  such  a  poor  creature — 
this  cough  fidgets  me  so  ;  but  I  am  a  great  deal  better, 
only  the  weather  is  so  unseasonable,  and  cold  winds 
always  affect  my  nerves.     Do  you  think  I  look  ill  ?" 

"  You  are  something  thinner  than  you  were,  ma'am," 
answered  Susan :  "  but  it  is  three  years  since  I  saw  you 
last ;  and  three  years  is  a  long  time." 

"  So  it  is  a  long  time,  Susan  ;  but  now  tell  me,  what 
did  they  do  to  you  in  London  ?  I  am  so  curious  !  Did 
you  stay  in  the  hospital  all  the  time?" 

"  YeSj  ma'am,  I  never  left  it,  except  to  come  home." 


80  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

♦'  What !  did  you  not  see  any  of  the  sights  ?  Not  the 
king's  palace,  nor  the  theatres,  nor  any  thing  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  'tis  against  the  rules  for  people  to  go  out 
visiting  ;  and  sure,  as  soon  as  I  was  well,  1  wanted  to 
see  nothing  so  much  as  father,  and  mother,  and  home. 
As  soon  as  I  was  able,  they  set  me  to  work,  cleaning  the 
place,  and  helping  to  wait  on  other  poor  creatures  who 
were  worse  than  myself." 

"  Poor  girl,  that  was  very  hard  !" 

"  Oh  no,  ma'am  ;  I  was  very  glad  to  be  useful,  and  I 
was  a  deal  happier  than  being  idle.  I  missed  my  worst- 
ed-work sadly  at  first ;  the  time  seems  so  very  long  when 
one  has  nothing  to  do, — nothing  but  to  think,  think, 
think !" 

Just  then  Farmer  Otley  entered. 

•'  I  say,  Lizzy,  where  are  the  keys  of  the  cellar  ?  I 
want  to  get  something  to  drink  for  Mr.  Hawkins,  who  is 
waiting  at  the  door." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Otley,  don't  speak  so  quick ;  you  hurry 
one.  The  keys  are  in  my  reticule  ;  it  is  up-stairs.  Tell 
Hetty  to  fetch  it." 

Mr,  Otley  went  after  Hetty,  and  Mrs.  Otley  remarked, 
"  Poor  dear  Mr.  Otley  !  his  manner  is  so  abrupt  !  He 
is  not  used  to  an  invalid  !" 

"  Lizzy,  I  can't  find  your  bag  anywhere.  The  keys 
should  be  in  your  pocket :  feel  for  them  there." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Otley,  you  know  I  do  not  wear  pockets ; 
a  reticule  is  so  much  more  convenient." 

"  Well !  but  where  are  the  keys  ?  Mr.  Hawkins  will 
think  I  grudge  him  a  glass  of  ale." 

"  Oh,  my  love,  be  patient;  you  quite  make  me  shake  !" 
and  she  began  in  a  really  nervous  trepidation  to  hunt  for 
the  reticule,  which  was  found  in  her  chair. 

Mrs.  Otley  and  Susan  resumed  their  conversation, 
when  presently  the  farmer  returned. 

"  Lizzy,  you  have  not  got  a  needle  and  thread  handy, 
have  you  ?  I  told  you  I  thought  this  button  would  soon 
be  off,  and  so  it  is." 

"  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Otley,  I  thought  you  had  told  Hetty  to 
sew  it  on  yesterday.     Do  call  her,  and  tell  her  to  bring 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  81 

my  work-box  here."  The  good-natured  husband  called 
Hetty,  and  after  sonme  time  the  needle  and  thread  were 
found. 

"  Come,  look  sharp  ;  I  must  be  at  the  vestry  at  three 
o'clock  ;  and  1  tlon't  like  to  be  seen  with  my  waistcoat 
all  any  how." 

Mrs.  Otley's  fingers  really  trembled  as  she  was  sew- 
ing on  the  button.  "  Why,  Lizzy,  1  have  hurried  you  ! 
I  am  sorry  for  that.  There,  never  mind  ;  don't  fluster 
yourself !" 

"  You  never  think  of  one's  nerves,  Mr.  Otley." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Lizzy,  if  you  did  not  talk  about 
them,  or  if  you  did  not  call  them  nerves,  I  should  think 
about  them.  I  see  you  are  not  well,  and  you  have  got 
a  bad  cough,  and  I  must  take  care  of  you ;  so  don't  fret 
yourself,  but  keep  quiet.  I'll  try  to  see  to  the  things 
myself,  though  in-door  matters  are  not  in  my  way  :  but 
we  must  make  a  shift." 

"  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Glover  never  did  all  the  drudgery 
poor  dear  Mr.  Otley  expects  me  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Otley, 
when  her  husband  had  left  them  :  "  I  do  not  think  a  wife 
is  to  be  a  servant,"  she  continued,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head. 

Susan  thought  that  a  wife  ought  to  see  that  all  was 
well  regulated  in  her  household ;  but  poor  Mrs.  Otley 
was  evidently  ill  and  suffering,  and  she  pitied  her.  As 
Susan  went  away,  she  saw  the  little  girl  crying  because 
the  maid  had  slapped  her,  and  the  little  boy  slapping  the 
maid  because  she  would  not  let  him  put  his  fingers  into 
the  pie  she  was  preparing.  She  retraced  her  steps  to 
her  humble  home,  in  the  full  persuasion  that  she  was 
happier  than  any  of  the  inmates  of  Holmy-bank  farm. 

Poor  Mrs.  Otley  became  rapidly  worse  ;  and  before 
many  months  had  elapsed,  her  troubles  and  her  finery 
were  alike  brought  to  a  final  close,  and  she  was  laid  in 
the  quiet  grave. 

Mr.  Otley  remained  a  widower,  with  two  young  chil- 
dren. He  was  a  sincere  mourner.  The  natural  kindness 
of  liis  heart  had  caused  him  to  become  truly  attached  to 
the  woman  whose  preference  for  him  had  at  first  been 


82  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

her  principal  attraction ;  and  her  sufferings  latterly  had 
still  further  endeared  her.  But  when  the  freshness  of  his 
grief  had  subsided — when  he  found  that  a  bustling  old 
body,  whom  he  took  as  housekeeper,  kept  all  things 
around  him  far  more  neat  and  trim  than  they  had  formerly 
been — when  he  found  his  kitchen  clean,  his  buttons  sewed 
on,  his  shirts  mended — and,  above  all,  w  hen  every  thing 
he  asked  for  was  always  forthcoming  from  that  compen- 
dious receptacle,  the  old  woman's  pockets — his  spirits 
gradually  revived.  His  children  were  less  fretful,  their 
faces  were  cleaner ;  and  he  only  lamented  that  the  old 
woman  could  not  read,  and  that  he  had  not  much  leisure 
himself  to  attend  to  their  morals  or  their  education.  By 
degrees  he  began  to  think  that  a  younger  woman  might, 
perhaps,  attend  to  the  dairy  and  the  chickens  as  effec- 
tually as  old  Goody  Thompson ;  that  a  younger  woman 
might  make  the  new  servant-girl  (for  Mrs.  Thompson 
had  dismissed  the  slipshod  maiden)  scour  the  pots  and 
pans  as  perseveringly  ;  and  he  also  began  to  think  it 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  have  a  younger  face  and  a 
brighter  smile  welcome  him  home,  after  his  labours  of  the 
day.  And  whom  could  he  find  who  would  be  more 
active  and  useful  than  Susan  Foster?  Who  w^as  calcu- 
lated to  train  his  children's  minds  to  duty,  submission,  and 
religious  resignation,  more  practically  than  Susan  Foster? 
And  where  could  he  find  a  brighter  smile  or  more  spark- 
ling eye  than  Susan  Foster's  ? 


I'HE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  83 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Bairns,  and  their  bairns,  make  sure  a  firmer  tie 
Than  aught  in  love  the  hke  of  us  can  spy. 
See  yon  twa  elms  that  grow  up  side  by  side  : 
Suppose  them,  some  years  sjme,  bridegroom  and  bride  \ 
Nearer  and  nearer  ilka  year  they've  pressed, 
Till  wide  their  spreading  branches  have  increased. 
This  shields  the  other  Irae  the  eastlin  blast, 
That  in  return  defends  it  frae  the  west. 

Allan  Ramsay. 

Although  Mr.  Otley  had  no  longer  any  commissions 
to  perform  at  Turnholme  for  Susan,  her  worsted-work 
having  given  place  to  her  former  occupation  of  needle- 
work, still  he  found  many  an  excuse  for  calling.  Some- 
times he  would  send  the  old  man  a  rabbit  for  his  supper ; 
sometimes  a  cheese,  the  handiwork  of  Dame  Thompson. 
At  another  time  he  gave  Susan  a  hive  of  young  bees, 
which  had  just  swarmed,  as  the  dame  had  said  she  was 
fond  of  honey.  By  degrees  he  greatly  won  upon  the 
esteem  of  Susan  by  his  attentions  to  her  parents.  He 
was  in  a  situation  comparatively  so  much  superior  to 
theirs,  that  he  had  the  opportunity  of  appearing  to  them 
almost  in  the  light  of  a  benefactor.  Some  time,  however, 
elapsed  before  he  ventured  to  express  his  feelings  in  any 
mode  but  by  kindness  to  her  parents.  The  sorrows  she 
had  known,  the  trials  slie  had  gone  through,  and  the  com- 
posed resignation  to  which  she  had  trained  her  mind 
during  her  affliction,  had  left  a  sedate  self-possession  in 
her  cheerfulness.  He  was  aware  of  her  previous  attach- 
ment, and  he  did  not  feel  sure  whether  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage would  be  received,  in  the  manner  probable,  from  the 
relative  situation  of  the  parties. 

At  length  his  little  presents  became  more  pointedly 
addressed  to  her.  His  basket  of  ripest  gooseberries  was 
given  to  her.    He  would  invite  her  to  take  a  walk  to 


84  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

look  at  his  garden,  and  gather  herself  a  nosegay.  He 
sometimes  lamented  to  her  that  his  children  were  not 
sufficiently  attended  to.  "  He  did  not  wish  to  bring  them 
up  to  over-gentility,  but  he  wished  them  to  have  a  good 
plain  education.  He  should  like  iiis  girl  to  be  as  good  a 
scholar  as  Susan  was ;  that  would  do  for  him ;  plain 
useful  learning,  plain  useful  good  sense,  and  plain  useful 
work.  He  wished  Susan  would  step  up,  and  see  how 
little  Lizzy  went  on."     Hut  this  Susan  did  not  like  to  do. 

The  neighbours  already  began  to  talk,  and  the  old 
dame  already  began  to  hope  her  girl  was  likely  to  be  well 
settled  in  life  ;  "  and  then,"  as  she  said  to  Nicholas,  one 
evening,  when  Susan  was  gone  out  to  carry  home  some 
work — "  and  then,  Nicholas,  it  does  not  signify  how  soon 
it  pleases  the  Lord  to  take  us :  then  I  may  pray,  as  I  used 
to  do,  that  I  may  never  see  another  sun  rise  when  once 
it  has  pleased  God  to  call  you  to  himself." 

Susan  herself  had  no  pride  of  romance  about  her.  She 
esteemed  Mr.  Otley,  and  she  was  aware  that  he  became 
every  day  more  particular  in  his  manner  to  her ;  she  knew 
that  the  home  he  could  offer  her  would  be  comfortable 
beyond  what  she  had  any  right  to  expect ;  his  plain  man- 
ners appeared  to  her  neither  rough  nor  hDmely,  and  she 
felt  sorry  for  the  little  children,  who  were  deprived  of  a 
mother's  tenderness.  Such  being  the  state  of  mind  of 
the  parties  in  question,  the  sequel  may  easily  be  guessed. 
Mr.  Otley  stopped  one  evening  on  his  way  from  market, 
as  it  was  now  grown  his  custom  to  do,  and  good-naturedly 
reproached  Susan  for  not  having  been  to  see  his  garden 
or  his  children.  She  was  ashamed  to  give  the  true  rea- 
son, and  said  she  had  been  very  busy  with  a  job  of  needle- 
work. 

"  I  don't  like  you  to  work  so  hard,  Susan  :  it  is  not 
good  for  her  ;  is  it,  dame  ?  Young  folks  should  take  a 
little  pleasure  sometimes.  I  know  I  should  like  to  see 
Susan  in  a  home  of  her  own,  with  a  servant  girl  to  do 
her  work  for  her.  She  is  too  good  by  half  to  be  always 
drudging." 

"  Thank  you  kindly  for  your  good  wishes,  Master 
Otley,"  answered  old  Nicholas.    "  I  should  like  to  know 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  85 

rny  poor  girl  had  a  good  home  over  her  head  when 
I  am  dead  and  gone." 

"  Ah !  that's  what  a  good  father  is  sure  to  think  of. 
You  would  rest  easier,  Master  Nicholas,  if  you  knew 
Susan  was  mistress  of  a  comfortable  place  of  her  own, 
and  was  never  likely  to  come  to  want  as  long  as  she 
lived !" 

"  Ah,  sure !  should  I,"  replied  the  simple  old  man, 
who  was  in  great  hopes  Mr.  Otley  was  coming  straight 
to  the  point.  And  he  wished  no  better  than  to  come 
to  the  point:  but  it  is  not  easy  to  propose  in  company; 
and,  straightforward  as  Mr.  Otley  was,  he  began  to 
feel  as  shy  as  others  do  in  this  predicament. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Susan  in  a  home  of  her  own 
very  much,"  repeated  Mr.  Otley,  slowly  and  awk- 
wardly, and  looking  out  of  the  window  when  he  had 
spoken. 

The  dame,  who  plainly  perceived  what  was  in  the 
farmer's  mind,  thought  that  if  Susan  was  out  of  the 
way  he  might  speak  openly  to  them  ;  or,  if  Susan  was 
alone,  he  might  find  courage  to  declare  himself  to  her. 
She,  therefore,  with  feminine  resource,  told  Susan  to 
go  to  the  shop  and  buy  her  a  pennyworth  of  ginger  to 
put  in  her  tea.  Susan  left  the  cottage  in  a  moment, 
for  she  found  herself  becoming  confused  and  uncomfort- 
able. Mr.  Otley  lingered  a  short  time,  and  said  no- 
thing ;  but  when  he  left  the  cottage  he  watched  for 
Susan's  return,  and  their  conversation  was  prolonged 
till  the  dame  began  to  doubt  whether  she  would  ever 
have  any  ginger  at  all. 

When  Susan  reappeared,  Mr.  Otley  was  with  her. 
She  looked  blushing,  but  happy;  the  farmer  confused, 
but  glorious,  as  he  told  Nicholas  he  "  hoped  he  would 
rest  soundly  that  night ;  that  is,  if  he  thought  Holmy- 
bank  farm  was  a  place  where  Susan  might  make  her- 
self comfortable,  and  if  he  could  trust  to  him  to  sec  she 
never  wanted  for  any  thing  as  long  as  he  lived." 

The  old  people  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  their 
satisfaction,  and  never  was  son-in-law  more  cordially 
received. 

VOL.  II. II 


86  THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 

We  have  already  celebrated  two  weddings  in  this 
short  tale,  and  it  was  not  long  before  a  third  took  place 
in  the  village  of  Overhurst.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Otley  ate 
their  wedding-dinner  in  the  Foslers'  cottage ;  for  Mr. 
Otley  had  had  enough  of  finery  and  fine  folks  ;  and  he 
enjoyed  the  heartfelt  happiness  of  those  whom  he  felt 
he  rendered  happy.  When  he  took  his  bride  home  in 
the  evening,  he  left  the  old  couple  in  a  state  of  blissful 
composure  of  mind,  which  they  had  once  thought  could 
never  again  be  theirs  on  this  side  the  grave  ;  and  when 
they  retired  to  rest,  they  returned  their  fervent  thanks 
to  Heaven  for  having  been  allowed  to  see  this  day ; 
and  now  tliey  felt  their  task  was  ended,  their  duties 
were  fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

Then  be  it  still  my  nightly  prayer 
To  live  to  close  his  sightless  eyes, 

For  this  my  torturing  pains  to  bear, 
Then  sink  in  death  ere  morning  rise  I 

With  steadfast  hope,  and  faith  serene, 
The  humble  prayer  of  duteous  love, 

Pour'd  ardent  forth  in  anguish  keen, 
Was  heard  where  Mercy  rules  above  ! 

Unpublished  Ballad  from  Js'alure. 

Susan  Foster's  unexpected  prosperity  was  not  re- 
garded without  envy  by  some  of  her  neighbours ;  and 
old  Nelly,  her  former  mistress  in  the  art  of  knitting, 
whose  temper  had  not  grown  more  gentle  with  in- 
creasing years  and  infirmities,  failed  not  to  remark  to 
her  granddaughter  that  "she  could  not  see,  for  her 
part,  what  there  was  about  Susan  Foster  that  people 
should  always  make  such  a  fuss  with  her.  Other  poor 
souls  had  their  afflictigns,  but  the  gentlefolks  did  not 
send  them  to  all  the  great  London  doctors  to  be  cured  j 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE.  87 

Other  girls  had  had  bad  eyes  before  now,  but  they  did 
not  get  a  good  husband  a  bit  the  more.  And  if  Susan 
Foster  was  so  lucky  as  to  marry  so  much  above  her 
station,  she  thought  she  ought  to  do  something  for  her 
poor  old  father  and  mother,  who  had  taken  care  of  her 
when  she  was  blind.  Folks  might  talk  of  Susan  being 
such  a  dutiful  daughter,  and  all  that;  but  for  her  part 
she  did  not  see  what  the  old  people  were  the  better  for 
having  a  farmer's  wife  for  a  daughter." 

"  I  am  sure,"  answered  Patty,  "  I  cannot  see  any 
thing  particular  about  Susan,  grandmother  ;  I  think 
there  are  many  girls  in  Overhurst  who  are  quite  fit  to 
be  her  match.  And  many  a  time,  since  I  have  grown 
big,  I  have  wondered  why  I  used  to  be  so  pleased  when 
Susan  Foster  spoke  kindly  to  me,  and  told  me  I  was  a 
good  girl.  I  think  she  took  upon  her  very  much  ;  for 
though  she  may  be  quite  a  great  lady,  and  may  ride  in 
her  one-horse  <;hay  now,  she  w-as  no  better  than  tnyself 
then!" 

"Ah,  my  dear  Patty!  'tis  the  way  of  those  people 
who  seem  to  have  such  a  respect  for  themselves,  to 
tnake  themselves  somehow  respected  by  others.  How- 
ever, Susan  is  but  a  labourer's  daughter  after  all,  and  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  demean  yourself  to  her :  I 
have  no  patience  with  your  up-starts.  A  poor  girl  that 
could  not  have  earned  a  farthing,  and  must  have  gone 
iiito  the  workhouse,  if  I  had  not  taught  her  how  to  knit! 
and  now  she  goes  driving  by  with  her  husband,  and  has 
called  upon  me  but  once,  though  she  has  been  married 
a  fortnight ;  and  has  never  sent  me  any  thing  but  a 
basket  of  apples  out  of  her  orchard,  which  don't  cost 
her  a  farthing."  Just  at  this  moment  a  boy  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  Patty  lifted  the  latch  to  admit  him. 
■*' Mrs.  Otley's  respects,  rna'am,  and  she  sends  you  a 
goose,  and  a  bottle  of  Farmer  Gtley's  elder  wine,  that 
you  may  drink  her  health  on  old  Michaelmas-day." 
Nelly  was  a  little  at  a  loss  what  to  reply;  but  after 
contemplating  the  present  with  a  satisfaction  which  she 
could  not  quite  control,  she  consoled  herself  by  saying 
io  Patty,  as  soon  as  the  boy  was  gone,  "  Mrs.  Otley's 


88  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

respects,  indeed  !  I  think  it  would  have  been  more 
respectful  if  Madam  Otley  had  called  herself  with  her 
present,  instead  of  sending  it  by  a  scrubby  boy." 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  if  Susan  did  not  forget 
old  Nelly,  she  took  care  that  her  parents  should  never 
want  any  comfort  which  her  affection  could  provide 
for  them,  and  her  kind-hearted  husband  seconded  her 
wishes  to  the  uttermost.  He  would  willingly  have  had 
them  remove  to  Holmy-bank  ;  but  the  old  man  had 
learned  to  grope  his  way  about  his  own  cottage,  and 
he  would  have  missed  his  accustomed  walk  to  his  own 
stile,  and  they  found  it  was  kinder  not  to  break  in  upon 
his  habits. 

Mrs.  Thompson  had  resigned  her  charge  to  Susan  ; 
and  Mr,  Otley  found  that  not  only  were  the  dairy  and 
poultry-yard  as  efficiently  attended  to,  but  that  his 
children  became  orderly  and  submissive,  and  that  his 
house  soon  acquired  that  air  of  home  comfort,  of  taste- 
ful neatness,  that  a  wife  only  can  give  it.  In  her  dress 
Susan  took  old  Mrs.  Otley,  the  mother,,  as  her  model,, 
although  she  somewhat  accommodated  herself  to  the 
fashion.  She  was  a  goodly  sight  to  look  upon,  as  she 
sat  by  her  husband's  side  in  the  market-cart,  once  de- 
nominated a  chaise,  her  black  hair  parted  on  her  white 
forehead,  her  smooth,  rounded,  blooming  cheek  enclosed 
in  her  snowy  cap  and  black  velvet  bonnet,  with  her 
brilliant  eyes  glancing  gayly  as  she  stopped  at  her 
fathers  door  on  her  way  to  market.  More  than  a  year 
had  thus  glided  by  in  sober  and  respectable  happiness, 
when  old  Nicholas  began  to  droop ;  he  could  no  longer 
reach  his  favourite  stile.  He  was  obliged  to  content 
himself  with  leaning  in  bis  accustomed  attitude  over 
the  wicket  of  his  own  little  garden.  After  a  while  he 
could  do  no  more  than  take  his  seat  at  the  cottage  door^ 
there  to  feel  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Susan  now 
devoted  herself  to  her  parents,  and  all  other  considera- 
tions sank  before  the  paramount  duty  she  owed  to 
them.  One  evening  she  had  brought  him  his  tea  to 
the  door,  where  Mr.  Otley  had  settled  him  on  his  own 
chair,  and  she  asked  him  if  he  felt  the  warmth  of  the 


THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE,  89 

sun.  "  I  don't  seem  to  have  any  warmth  in  my  bones," 
he  said  ;  "  but  I  Hke  to  know  the  sun  is  shining  upon 
me." 

"  Ah,  the  sun  is  a  glorious  thing,"  said  Sarah,  "  as  it 
sets  there  in  its  golden  bed  ;  but  when  my  poor  Nicho- 
las is  at  rest,  I  never  wish  to  see  its  bright  face  again. 
You  have  got  a  good  husband,  Susan,  and  a  comfort- 
able home,  and  you  will  not  want  me  now.  My  pains 
have  almost  worn  me  out ;  there's  no  taking  pleasure 
even  in  the  works  of  God,  when  one  is  so  racked  by 
pain." 

"  How  well  you  do  bear  your  sufferings,  mother ; 
'tis  very  seldom  you  make  any  complaints." 

"  There's  no  good  murmuring,  my  dear  Susan  ;  and 
it  is  my  duty  to  bear  what  'tis  God's  pleasure  to 
send." 

They  looked  round,  and  the  old  man's  head  had 
dropped  back  upon  the  chair  r  they  thought  he  was 
asleep;  but  he  did  not  breathe  :  life  was  extinct.  His 
wife  was  the  first  to  understand  the  truth.  "My  hus- 
band's spirit  has  passed,"  she  said.  "  My  poor  Nicho- 
las is  at  rest, — he  is  in  heaven  !  he  is  happy  I  Look  at 
that  smile, — yes,  he  is  happy !  God's  will  be  done  I" 
and  she  bowed  her  head. 

In  tears  and  trepidation  Farmer  Otley  and  Susan 
moved  him  within  doors.  He  carried  the  lifeless  body 
and  laid  it  on  the  bed  up-stairs;  while  Susan  held  her 
mother's  hands,  kissed  them,  and  wept  over  them. 
"  He  is  gone,  Susan  !  my  poor  husband  is  gone  !  He 
has  left  me  ! — my  poor  Nicholas  !"  and  she  rocked  her- 
self backward  and  forward,  her  hands  clasped  upon 
her  knee. 

The  neighbours  soon  assembled  ;  the  last  sad  duties 
were  performed  ;  and  the  aged  woman  whose  melan- 
choly province  it  was  to  lay  out  the  dead,  and  to  keep 
her  dreary  vigil  by  the  corpse,  attended  as  usual.  But 
old  Sarah  would  not  allow  her  to  remain.  She  said 
she  had  done  for  Nicholas  to  the  last  while  he  was 
living,  and  she  did  not  see  what  need  there  was  of  any 
one  else  to  tend  him  now.  She  thanked  the  neigh- 
u  2 


90  THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

hours  kindly,  but  she  could  watch  by  her  husband  now 
as  then,  and  she  would  not  trouble  any  of  them.  She 
settled  herself  in  her  chair  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and 
sat  there  silent,  meek,  and  patient. 

Susan,  who  was  a  nurse,  had  her  baby  brought  from 
the  farm,  and  established  it  in  what  had  formerly  been 
her  own  little  bedroom.  She  and  her  husband  then 
took  their  station  in  the  chamber  of  death,  and  together 
looked  upon  the  decent  corpse  of  the  old  man. 

The  brilliant  sunset  had  been  followed  by  a  stormy 
night.  The  wind  howled,  and  the  rain  beat  against 
the  casement.  The  rush  candle  burned  fitfully,  and 
shone  with  an  uncertain  light  upon  the  sunk  but  placid 
features  of  the  old  man.  Susan  could  scarcely  defend 
herself  from  the  vague  and  superstitious  terrors  which 
assail  the  uneducated  on  such  occasions.  The  furniture 
creaked  ;  noises,  which  in  the  day  are  unnoticed,  sound 
startlingly  acute  in  the  stillness  and  darkness  of  the 
night.  Susan  frequently  crept  into  the  adjoining  apart- 
ment to  see  how  it  fared  with  her  baby  ;  she  bent  over 
it  as  it  slumbered,  she  listened  to  its  respiration  till  she 
fancied  it  drew  its  breath  painfully.  When  suffering 
under  one  calamity,  the  human  heart  is  tremblingly 
alive  to  the  apprehension  of  others.  She  imagined  the 
infant  was  pale  ;  she  stole  back  to  beckon  her  husband 
to  look  upon  it  with  her.  He  attempted  to  reassure 
her;  but  Susan's  heart  was  oppressed  with  the  forebod- 
ing of  some  fresh  ill,  and  it  required  all  Mr.  Otley's 
patience  and  good-nature  to  sooth  fears  which  appeared 
so  unreasonable. 

It  was  an  inexpressible  relief  when  the  gray  dawn 
began  to  appear.  The  rain  all  cleared  away,  and  the 
sun  shone  forth  in  all  its  splendour ;  every  leaf  was 
glittering  in  the  sunshine,  the  rain-drops  hung  on  every 
spray,  the  birds  sang  as  if  to  strain  their  little  throats, 
the  flowers  were  beginning  to  expand  to  the  welcome 
rays.  Susan  placed  her  baby  in  her  husband's  arms 
while  she  returned  to  share  her  mother's  melancholy 
watch. 

When  she  entered  the  low  room,  the  sun  almost  daz- 


THE    HAMPSHIRE    COTTAGE.  91 

zled  her ;  its  beams  streamed  in  upon  the  slanting, 
whitewashed  ceiling  ;  they  shone  full  upon  her  mother's 
face,  as  she  sat  in  the  same  attitude  in  which  she  had 
left  her, — her  head  supported  by  the  high  back  of  the 
upright  chair,  her  hands  slightly  clasped  as  they  had 
fallen  on  her  knee,  and  her  eyes  closed. 

Susan  drew  near:  her  mother  spoke  not,  moved  not. 
She  knelt  by  her — she  listened  in  breathless  agony — no 
sound,  no  sign  of  recognition.  The  sunbeams  glared 
upon  her  eyelids,  but  she  heeded  them  not. 

A  nameless  chill  ran  through  poor  Susan's  frame. 
She  dared  not  touch  her  mother's  hand.  She  rose 
from  her  knees,  and  tottered  back  to  her  husband.  "  I 
wish  you  would  come  to  mother,"  she  said  ;  "  she  is 
very  still.  Mother  is  very  still  and  very  pale,"  she 
added,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible.  Susan's  looks  were 
ghastly.  Mr.  Otley  hastily  placed  the  sleeping  infant 
on  the  bed,  and  followed  Susan.  The  truth  was  at 
once  evident !  "  Your  mother's  prayers  have  been 
heard,  dear  Susan  ;  she  has  not  seen  another  sun  rise  ; 
she  has  not  seen  the  sun  which  now  shines  upon  her. 
Her  troubles  are  over,  and  we  should  thank  God  for 
his  mercy  to  her  !" 

And  the  time  did  come  when  Susan  was  able  thus 
to  feel ;  when  she  was  able  to  rejoice  that  her  mother's 
humble  prayer  had  thus  been  granted  ;  when  she 
learned  to  look  upon  its  accomplishment  as  an  earnest 
that  the  spirits  of  her  parents  were  enjoying  the  re- 
ward of  their  piety  and  their  submission.  But,  at  first, 
nature  had  its  course,  and  she  could  but  weep  for  that 
dear  mother  who  had  supported  her  under  her  heavy 
affliction,  consoled  her  in  her  sorrows,  tended  her  in 
her  helplessness.  Nor  did  her  husband  oppose  the 
grief  which  was  so  natural ;  he  wept  with  her ;  and 
she  feit  ihtj. holy  tie  which  bound  them  together  for 
weal  and  for  wo,  in  joy  and  in  sorrow,  in  sickness  and 
in  health,  become  more  closely  riveted  as  she  clung  to 
him  for  support,  as  she  turned  to  him  as  her  only 
earthly  con)forter. 

The  neighbours  again  assembled.     The  two  corpses 


92  THE  HAMPSHIRE  COTTAGE. 

were  decently  laid  out  in  the  same  chamber  which  for 
so  many  years  they  had  inhabited ;  and  all  who  had 
known  them  in  life,  came  to  have  one  last  sight  of  Ni- 
cholas and  Sarah  Foster. 

Susan  was  soothed  by  this  mark  of  respect  to  those 
whom  she  had  loved  so  well ;  and  she  was  gratified 
when,  among  the  rest,  George  Wells  mounted  the  nar- 
row stairs  to  look  once  more  upon  the  well-known 
faces  of  the  departed.  She  wept  when  she  heard  him 
sob  as  he  came  down  again,  and  when  he  wrung  her 
hand  as  he  hurried  by  through  the  little  kitchen  where 
she  sat  in  deep  but  gentle  grief.  She  wished  not  that 
he  should  cherish  the  recollection  of  herself;  but  any 
slight  to  the  memory  of  her  parents  would  have  been 
bitter,  coming  from  him  whom  they  had  once  treated 
as  a  son. 

One  funeral  service  was  performed  over  the  venera- 
ble couple  ;  one  grave  received  their  mortal  remains  ; 
one  stone  still  marks  the  spot  where  they  repose  ;  and 
together,  we  may  well  believe,  their  spirits  mounted  to 
those  regions  where  suffering  and  sorrow  are  un- 
known. 


BLANCHE. 


BLANCHE. 


CHAPTER  I, 

The  hidden  traynes  I  know,  and  secret  snares  of  love  ; 

How  soon  a  look  will  prynte  a  thoughte,  that  never  may  remove. 

Lord  Sdrrey. 

At  the  period  when  our  story  commences,  Lord  and 
Lady  Westhope  had  been  married  sixteen  years.  Theirs 
had  been  a  love-match.  The  love  had  lasted  on  the 
part  of  the  lady  at  least  seven  years  and  three  months  ; 
but  on  that  of  her  lord  not  quite  seven  months  and 
three  weeks  from  the  wedding-day. 

Lord  Westhope  had  then  been  thrown  with  the 
handsome  but  designing  Lady  Bassingham,  who  made 
an  easy  conquest  of  his  heart ;  which  conquest  she 
retained  till  the  rustic  bloom  of  Lucy  Meadows,  his 
wife's  new  maid,  eclipsed  the  somewhat  faded  charms 
of  the  lady  of  fashion.  When  weary  of  Lucy  Meadows, 
he  became  deeply  smitten  with  the  honourable  Miss 
Asterby,  the  young  beauty  of  the  day,  who  indulged 
her  vanity  in  listening  to  the  compliments  of  a  married 
man,  and  allowed  him  to  monopolize  more  of  her  con- 
versation than  was  either  judicious  or  prudent. 

To  these  succeeded  another  and  another  object,  se- 
lected from  every  rank  and  condition  of  life. 

During  the  six  years  seven  months  and  one  week, 
which  Lady  Westhope's  love  survived  that  of  her 
husband,  she  had  undergone  tortures  of  jealousy,  anger, 


90  BLANCHE. 

indignation,  and  mortification.  At  the  end  of  this  time 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  her  fate,  and  bore  his  infideli- 
ties with  tolerable  composure.  Henceforward  their 
domestic  life  M'as  very  peaceable.  The  wife  no  longer 
reproached  and  wept ;  and  the  husband  was  exceed- 
ingly gay  and  good-humoured. 

But  now  began  trials  of  another  sort  to  Lady  West- 
hope.  She  was  extremely  handsome  :  her  beauty  was 
of  a  sort  to  be  more  striking  at  twenty-five  than  at 
eighteen.  Her  husband  was  known  to  be  faithless — 
she  was  soon  found  to  be  indifferent.  All  vain  and  idle 
young  men  consequently  aspired  to  her  favour.  It 
need  not  be  added,  that  the  number  was  prodigious  ! 

But  though  she  had  been  disappointed  in  her  hopes 
of  being  loved,  she  resolved  to  pass  through  life  ad- 
mired and  respected.  She  would  set  the  world  the 
example  of  a  beautiful  and  neglected  wife,  defying,  the 
breath  of  slander,  repressing  every  sign  of  admiration, 
and  pursuing  her  course  uncontaminated  by  the  profli- 
gacy around  her.  A  word,  a  look  of  encouragement, 
would  have  brought  any  of  these  aspiring  youths  to 
sigh  at  her  feet ;  but  on  none  did  she  deign  to  bestow  a 
glance — firmly  and  cahnly  did  she  check  the  first 
symptom  of  preference  which  might  be  evinced  towards 
her. 

She  was  not  blessed  with  children,  but  she  had  many 
female  friends  ;  and  to  her  cousin,  Lady  Blanche  De 
Vaux,  she  was  warmly  attached.  Lady  Blanche  was 
fifteen  years  younger  than  herself,  and  her  affection  for 
her  young  cousin  combined  something  of  a  maternal 
character,  with  the  ease  and.  companionship  of  two 
women  who  were  both  in  the  perfection  of  woman- 
hood ;  for  Lady  Westhope  at  thirty-four  had  scarcely 
lost  any  of  her  beauty,  and  Lady  Blanche  at  nineteen 
was  in  the  fulness  of  hers. 

The  Westhopes  were  going  to  Paris ;  and  Lady 
Westhope  proposed  to  Lord  and  Lady  Falkingham, 
that  their  daughter.  Lady  Blanche,  should  accompany 
them.  Lady  Falkingham  had  gone  through  the  toil- 
some duties  of  chaperonage  for  a  series  of  years,  during 


BLANCHE.  9T 

which  she  had  successfully  disposed  of  her  elder 
daughters  in  marriage.  She  was  not  sorry,  therefore, 
to  repose  from  her  labours,  and  to  intrust  the  youngest 
to  the  care  of  so  unexceptionable  a  person  as  her  niece, 
J^ady  Westhope. 

To  Paris  went  Lady  Blanche,  in  all  the  buoyancy 
of  youth  ;  escaped  for  the  first  time  from  the  trammels 
of  an  education  in  which  no  possible  accomplishment 
had  been  neglected,  and  the  vigilance  of  the  most  correct 
of  mothers.  She  was  enchanted  with  the  Louvre,  full 
of  admiration  at  the  beauties  and  grandeur  of  Paris  ; 
amused  with  the  theatres,  the  Champs  Elysees,  with. 
Tivoli — with  every  thing  ;  and  entered  with  spirit  and 
gayety  into  the  agreeable  society  which  is  nowhere  to 
be  found  in  greater  perfection  than  at  Paris. 

Lady  Westhope  was  also  amused  and  interested  ; 
and  for  the  sake  of  Blanche  mixed  more  generally  with 
the  world  than  it  was  her  custom  to  do. 

Lord  Westhope  also  amused  himself  very  much ; 
but  how  we  do  not  exactly  know. 

Independently  of  their  rank  and  their  situation,  the 
beauty  of  our  two  cousins  would  have  rendered  them 
no  inconsiderable  personages  among  the  English  at 
Paris,  Lady  Westhope's  skin  was  whiter  than  snow — 
her  hair  blacker  than  the  raven's  wing — her  form  full 
and  graceful — her  manner  calm  and  self-possessed : 
had  she  been  unmarried,  it  might  have  been  thought 
cold,  perhaps  haughty  ;  as  a  matron,  it  was  dignified. 
I^ady  Blanche's  clustering  curls,  and  hazel  eyes  of  the 
same  rich  dark  brown  as  her  hair,  the  mantling  glow 
of  her  blooming  cheek,  her  slender  form  and  elastic 
step,  possessed  all  the  graces  of  youth,  while  her  coun- 
tenance beamed  with  animation,  joy,  tenderness,  and 
each  emotion  that  rapidly  succeeded  the  other  in  her 
bosom. 

Among  the  many  slight  preferences,  incipient  flirta- 
tions, and  positive  love-makings,  which  took  place  in 
the  set  to  which  Lady  Westhope  belonged,  none  was 
more  decided  than  that  between  the  beautiful  Lady 
Blanche  and  Captain  De  Molton.     She  was  a  romantic, 

VOL.    II. — I 


08 


BLANCHE. 


enthusiastic  girl,  peculiarly  calculated  to  feel  the  attrac- 
tions of  a  man  who  was  formed  to  figure  as  a  hCros  de 
roman.  He  was  very  tall — he  was  pale — his  features 
were  marked,  but  they  bore  an  expression  of  melan- 
choly and  of  feeling.  The  qualities  of  his  mind  cor- 
responded with  his  exterior.  Lofty,  uncompromising 
rectitude  was  combined  with  acute  feelings,  which,  as 
his  appearance  indicated,  were  more  calculated  to  work 
him  wo  than  weal.  A  look  of  sentiment,  though  to 
the  old  and  wary  it  may  portend  no  happiness  either  to 
the  possessor  or  to  those  connected  with  him,  is  often 
to  the  young  and  gay  more  attractive  than  the  most 
joyous  liveliness. 

Captain  De  IMolton  was  in  love — desperately  1  ove 
with  Lady  Blanche.  But  he  knew  he  was  poor  :  he 
knew  that  if  he  was  to  offer  her  all  he  had — i.  e.  his 
whole  undivided  affections,  Lord  and  Lady  Falkingham 
could  not  in  conscience  allow  their  daughter  to  accept 
him.  He  therefore  confined  himself  to  watching  her 
while  she  was  talking  to  others ;  he  did  not  allow  him- 
self to  occupy  the  seat  by  her  side.  If  by  chance  he 
was  betrayed  into  any  expression  of  his  feelings,  he  stu- 
diously avoided  her  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours  ; 
and  by  so  doing,  he  flattered  himself  he  was  playing 
the  part  of  a  martyr.  He  fancied  he  wgs  only  endan- 
gering his  own  peace  of  mind ;  he  believed  he  so  com- 
pletely concealed  what  was  passing  within,  that  hers 
could  run  no  risk.  He  had  not  the  self-sufficiency  to 
imagine  he  could  win  a  heart  he  did  not  attempt  to 
gain.  But  these  very  starts  of  passion,  these  inconsis- 
tencies, these  uncertainties,  the  air  of  intense  melan- 
choly which  at  times  overspread  his  countenance,  were 
more  dangerous  to  a  person  of  Lady  Blanche's  disposi- 
tion than  the  most  open  and  decided  attentions. 

She  could  not  think  he  was  indifferent  towards  her  ; 
yet  she  was  piqued  by  his  occa.sional  avoidance,  touched 
by  his  air  of  intense  melancholy,  delighted  with  the  fire 
which  gleamed  from  his  eye  when  she  addressed  him, 
and  with  the  smile   which,  when  it  did  light  up  his 


BLANCHE.  99 

countenance,  was  bright  and  dazzling  as  the  sunbeam 
after  a  summer  storm. 

In  short,  while  intending  to  preserve  her  heart 
from  the  sentiment  which  possessed  his  own,  he  uncon- 
sciously acted  with  the  most  consummate  coquetry — 

"  Piqued  her  and  soothed  by  turns." 

Things  were  in  this  state,  when  Captain  De  Molton's 
particular  friend,  Lord  Glenrith,  arrived  at  Paris,  He 
was  immediately  struck  with  Lady  Blanche's  beauty, 
and  fascinated  by  her  manners.  He  was  an  eldest  son, 
and  heir  to  a  fme  property.  He  was  extremely  good- 
looking — his  character  was  excellent — as  a  jjartl  he 
was  unexceptionable. 

De  Molton,  with  a  lover's  quickness  of  perception, 
read  Lord  Glenrith's  feelings  almost  before  he  was 
aware  of  them  himself;  and  he  thought  it  would  be  a 
crime  to  stand  in.  the  way  of  a  union  which  would  be 
advantageous  to  Lady  Blanche,  and  which  must  indeed 
make  the  happiness  of  his  best  and  earliest  friend. 
Although  it  was  almost  agony  to  see  Glenrith  con- 
stantly occupy  at  dinner  the  place  he  resolutely  did  not 
take,  and  to  see  him  whisper  soft  nothings  into  her  ear, 
which  it  would  have  been  rapture  to  him  to  utter  ; 
though  it  was  maddening  to  see  Glenrith  act  as  her 
escort  on  all  morning  excursions,  when  he  seldom 
dared  approach  ;  still  a  sort  of  fascination  bound  him 
to  the  spot.  It  was  with  trembling  anxiety  that  he 
watched  Lady  Blanche's  reception  of  his  friend's  atten- 
tions, with  pain  which  he  could  not  control  that  he 
marked  any  thing  which  might  be  construed  into  en- 
couragement on  her  part ;  but  it  was  with  most  unrea- 
sonable joy  that  he  perceived  her  listen  to  him  with 
cold  indifference,  and  sometimes  that  he  caught  her 
eye  glance  towards  himself  while  Lord  Glenrith  was 
by  her  side. 

Any  doubt  he  might  entertain  as  to  his  friend's  real 
intentions,  was  soon  set  at  rest  by  his  one  day  confidiiig 
to  him  that  he  was  very  much  attached  to  Lady  Blanche, 
that  his  parents  wished  him  to  marry,  and  that  he  had 


100  BLANCHE. 

made  up  his  mind  to  propose,  as  soon  as  he  felt  sure  of 

the  lady. 

This  annunciation  fell  as  a  final  deathblow  on  De 
Molton's  hopes — if  hopes  they  might  ever  have  been 
called.  "Yet  Glenrith  spoke  doubtfully  of  her  recep- 
tion of  liis  offer — and  Glenrith  is  not  usually  over- 
diffident  of  himself,"  thong-ht  De  Molton  in  the  midst  of 
his  despair.  Still  he  felt  it  would  be  folly,  madness,  to 
hnger  ni  the  society  of  Lady  Blanche.  In  all  proba- 
bility she  would  soon  be  the  affianced  wife  of  his  friend. 

It  would  be  base  and  treacherous  in  him  to  attempt 
to  circumvent  that  friend — cruel  to  sport  with  her  feel- 
ings ;  and  now  that  Glenrith  had  spoken  thus  confiden- 
tially, there  was  nothing  left  but  to  withdraw  himself 
from  witnessing  the  prosecution  of  a  suit,  in  the  pro- 
bable success  of  which  he  felt  he  ought  to  rejoice,  while 
his  spirit  recoiled  from  the  bare  anticipation  of  such  a 
result. 

Accordingly  he  told  Lord  Glenrith  that  he  was  sud- 
denly recalled  to  England  on  particular  business.  He 
seated  himself  in  the  cabriolet  of  the  Calais  diligence, 
and  took  his  weary  way  to  his  native  land  with  the  most 
profound  adoration  of  wealth — with  the  most  ardent 
aspirations  for  honour,  rank,  riches,  and  all  the  good 
things  of  this  world — that  he  might,  without  folly  or  pre- 
sumption, be  entitled  to  throw  himself  at  the  feet  of  Lady 
Blanche. 

Lady  Westhope's  duty,  as  a  wise  chaperon,  would 
have  been  to  discourage  in  every  way  the  attentions  of 
Captain  De  Molton,  and  to  foster  those  of  Lord  Glen- 
rith. She  meant  to  do  so, — she  thought  she  did  so. 
She  constantly  repeated  to  Blanche  how  impossible  it 
was  that  Captain  De  Molton  should  ever  propose,  how 
impossible  that  he  should  be  accepted,  how  totally  im- 
possible that  they  could  ever  marry — or  that,  if  married, 
they  could  have  bread  to  eat ;  and  she  thought  she  had 
done  her  duty.  But  the  spectacle  of  a  man,  sincerely, 
ardently,  respectfully,  and  hopelessly  in  love,  was  to  her 
feelings,  naturally  warm,  though  she  had  incased  them 
jn  an  armour  of  coldness  and  reserve,  so  interesting  a 


T  BLANCHE.  101 

sight,  that  she  could  not  help  treating  him  and  speaking 
of  him  as  a  person  formed  to  win  the  heart  of  woman. 
All  those  who  had  formerly  seemed  inclined  to  pay  her 
attention,  she  had  from  the  very  beginning  treated  with 
such  repelling  coldness,  that  she  had  never  been  exposed 
to  the  trial  of  witnessing  real  and  sincere  emotions 
strongly  excited.  In  the  desolation  of  her  own  secret 
soul,  the  sight  was  tantalizing  and  painful.  She  could 
not  help  envying  Blanche  the  power  of  calling  them 
forth,  nor  could  she  help  looking  back  with  a  sigh  upon 
the  blank  of  her  own  loveless  career.  She  would  have 
given  any  thing  for  Aladdin's  lamp,  that  she  might  endovv 
young  De  Molton  with  the  worldly  wealth  which  could 
have  secured  to  them  the  fate  from  which  she  was  herself 
cut  out. 

The  few  months  they  passed  at  Paris  had  a  sensible 
effect  upon  the  minds  of  both  the  cousins.  Lady  Blanche 
for  the  first  time  felt  love.  She  also  felt  keen  mortifica- 
tion— for  to  nothing  does  love  more  completely  blind  its 
victim  than  to  the  sensations  experienced  by  the  object 
beloved.  While  Lady  Westhope  saw  in  Captain  De 
Molton  an  interesting  and  high-minded  young  man  strug- 
gling with  a  hopeless  passion, — in  short,  while  she  accu- 
rately read,  and  was  able  to  appreciate  his  feelings, — 
Lady  Blanche  thought  him  cold,  indifferent,  capricious, 
and  frequently  doubted  whether,  indeed,  he  entertained 
any  preference  at  all  for  her. 

In  Lady  VVesthope's  mind  a  great  change  also  had 
taken  place.  Perhaps  the  example  of  all  around  her 
(for,  whatever  the  propriety  of  French  women  under 
the  new  regime  may  be,  the  conduct  of  English  women, 
when  once  they  have  crossed  the  channel,  is  not  such  as 
to  impress  foreign  nations  with  a  high  idea  of  the  moral- 
ity for  which  we  would  fain  be  thought  remarkable),  per- 
haps the  more  easy  footing  of  society  abroad,  combined 
to  produce  in  her  vague  aspirations  after  an  interchange 
of  sincere  affection:  visions  of  mutual  love,  devotion, 
attachment,  &c. — notions  against  which,  for  nine  years, 
she  had  been  shutting  her  ears  and  barring  her  heart- 
again  found  entrance  to  her  bosom. 
i2 


102 


BLATiCnZ, 


CHAPTER  II. 

Whom  call  we  gay  ?     That  honour  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
The  innocent  are  gay.     The  lark  is  gay, 
That  dries  his  feathers  saturate  with  dew 
Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams 
Of  dayspring  overshoot  the  humble  nest. 

COWPER. 

The  morning  after  De  Molton's  departure,  our  two 
cousins  were  prepared  for  an  excursion  to  Versailles,  and 
were  expecting  the  gentlemen  w'ho  were  to  accompany 
them,  when  Lord  Glenrith  entered.  Lady  Westhope 
inquired  what  was  become  of  Captain  De  Molton. 

"  Gone,"  he  replied  :  "  he  set  off  for  England  yester- 
day— called  home  on  some  tiresome  regimental  business. 
But  did  you  not  see  him  1  did  you  not  hear  from  him? 
Very  uncivil,  faith  !  not  at  all  like  De  Molton." 

"  I  wonder  he  did  not  call,"  said  Lady  Westhope:  and 
she  stole  a  look  towards  Blanche,  who  was  so  busily  em- 
ployed in  tying  her  bonnet  and  putting  on  her  shawl, 
with  her  back  towards  them,  and  her  veil  half  covering 
her  face,  that  she  could  not  detect  how  she  took  this  un- 
expected intelligence. 

The  carriages  of  the  rest  of  the  party  now  drew  up 
in  the  street.  Lord  Glenrith  ran  down-stairs  to  deliver 
a  message  to  one  of  the  Misses  Elvvick,  offering  her 
Captain  De  Molton's  seat  in  the  barouche  ;  when  Lady 
Westhope  remarked — 

"  How  strange  in  Captain  De  Molton  !" 

'•  How  mortifying  !"  replied  Lady  Blanche  :  "  the  idea 
of  marrying  may  be  foolish  and  imprudent,  as  you  say, 
but  he  might  leave  me  to  find  it  out.  I  hate  cold,  calcu- 
lating men,  who  do  exactly  what  is  right,  and  discreet, 


BLANCHE.  103 

and  proper ;  whose  conduct  nobody  can  find  the  least 
fault  with.  Such  men  may  be  esteemed,  but  they  cannot 
expect  to  be  loved.  I  almost  think  I  should  prefer  a 
warm-hearted  impetuous  person,  who  was  generously 
\vronor,  to  a  wary,  prudent  one,  who  was  coldly  right. 
But  wiiat  am  I  saying  ?  The  simple  fact  is,  that  the  poor 
man  did  not  happen  to  like  me.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
should  find  fault  with  him  because  he  did  not  fail  in  love 
with  me  !"  And  she  tried  to  smile,  and  to  treat  the 
whole  thing  lightly. 

Lady  Westhope  could  not  help  adding,  "  that  she  had 
thought,  and  indeed  she  did  still  think,  that  he  was  in 
love  notwithstanding  his  prudence."  Lady  Blanche  had 
just  time  to  reply,  half  bitterly,  half  jestingly,  "  that  there 
could  not  be  much  love  if  prudence  could  so  completely 
master  it ;"  when  Lord  Glenrith  returned  to  hand  them 
from  their  splendid  apartments  down  the  dirty  brick 
stairs  of  a  French  hotel. 

The  day  was  beautiful — the  drive  not  long  enough  to 
be  fatiguing — the  palace  magnificent — the  gardens  no- 
ble— the  whole  replete  with  the  most  interesting  recol- 
lections. Lady  Blanche  had  always  been  an  enthusiast 
about  Madame  de  la  Valliere,  Louis  XVI.,  Marie  Antoi- 
nette. She  had  anticipated  the  greatest  delight  in  visiting 
the  scenes  of  so  many  events  with  which,  from  childhood, 
she  had  been  familiar ;  but  she  found  herself  listening 
with  the  most  absent  mind  to  the  details  given  by  the 
guide,  even  though  he  pointed  out  the  very  balcony  from 
which  he  himself  remembered  having  seen  Marie  An- 
toinette, with  the  dauphin  in  her  arms,  addressing  the 
people  on  that  dreadful  day  when  the  royal  family  were 
carried  oil"  by  the  mob  to  the  Tuilleries.  She  looked 
round  with  vacant  eyes  at  the  white  and  gold  a[)artments 
where  Marie  Antoinette  held  her  evening  soirees  ;  nor 
could  she  warm  herself  into  a  proper  emotion  over  the 
oratoiro  of  the  unfortunate  king,  nor  even  over  the  nar- 
row back  passage  by  which  he  attempted  to  escape. 

In  the  gardens,  the  statues  which  were  pointed  out  as 
those  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
tanges,  and  Madame  de  la  Vallidre  herself,  failed  to 


104  BLANCHE. 

excite  any  interest.  In  her  present  state  of  mind  she 
thought  it  was  all  nonsense,  and  did  not  the  least  believe 
that  Diana  was  Madame  de  Maintenon,or  Fidelity,  with 
a  dog  at  her  feet,  was  intended  for  Madame  de  la  Val- 
liere. 

She  became  somewhat  more  interested  at  the  Petit 
Trianon.  The  Swiss  cottage,  the  vacherie  of  poor 
Marie  Antoinette  touched  her,  and  she  remarked  to  Lord 
Glenrith,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  how,  in  the  midst  of 
all  her  splendours,  the  queen  seemed  to  have  preserved 
her  taste  for  nature,  the  country,  freedom,  and  simplicity. 
"  It  shows,  after  all,  how  insufficient  are  pomp  and  gran- 
deur to  happiness !"  And  she  thought  of  Captain  De 
Molton,  and  that  just  such  a  cottage  as  the  Swiss  farm, 
with  him  (supposing  he  had  liked  her,  which  he  did  not), 
w^ould  be  vastly  preferable  to  Versailles  itself  with  any 
one  else.  Lord  Glenrith  thought,  "  what  a  noble,  high- 
minded  girl !  she  will  love  me  for  myself — she  will  not 
be  influenced  by  my  being  a  good  match  ;"  and  he  re- 
doubled his  attentions. 

The  party  liad  obtained  permission  to  have  their  col- 
lation laid  out  in  the  marble  gallery  ;  and  they  sat  down, 
a  large  and  brilliant  party — as  young,  as  beautiful,  as  had 
ever  been  the  inmates  of  that  palace,  consecrated  to 
pleasure,  and  pleasure  alone. 

Lady  Westhope  was  the  eldest  lady  present.  The 
two  Misses  Elwick  were  beauties — decided  beauties, 
and  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  with  gay  and  lively  man- 
ners, high  spirits,  light  hearts,  and  vanity  enough  thor- 
oughly to  enjoy  the  admiration  they  were  in  the  habit 
of  exciting.  Mrs.  Courtney  Astwell  was  very  pretty, 
and  being  married,  and  a  coquette  of  course,  commanded 
the  attentions  of  the  gentlemen  still  more  supereminently 
than  any  of  the  other  1  idles,  w"hatever  their  claims  might 
be.  Lady  Westhope  was,  for  the  first  time,  quite  in  the 
background — nearly  on  the  shelf.  Lord  Glenrith  was  de- 
voted to  Lady  Blanche  ;  Sir  Charles  Weyburn  was  de- 
cidedly struck  with  Miss  Elwick  ;  Lord  James  Everdon 
and  Miss  Eliza  Elwick  were  so  merry,  that  another  joke 
succeeded,  long  before  the  laugh  produced  by  the  first 


BLANCHE.  105 

had  subsided.  Mr.  Stapleford,  the  sharp,  sarcastic, 
clever  diplomat,  did  Mrs.  Courtney  Astwell  the  honour 
of  giving  her  his  arm  ;  while  Lord  Faversham  walked 
on  the  other  side  and  joined  in  the  conversation,  and  the 
stripling  Lord  Elmington  hovered  on  the  flank  or  in  the 
rear,  as  opportunity  might  serve. 

Mr.  Wroxholme  alone  remained  for  Lady  Westhope. 
He  was  a  new  addition  to  the  society  whose  claims  to 
notice  had  not  yet  been  ascertained.  He  was  in  the 
law,  and  he  looked  clever.  He  might  be  nearly  thirty, 
and  he  was  presentable  in  appearance  and  gentleman- 
like in  manners. 

Notwithstanding  the  dignity  and  reserve  of  Lady 
Westhope's  deportment,  she  had  never  before  found 
herself  overlooked.  Her  rank,  her  respectability,  her 
beauty,  in  the  usual  routine  of  dinners,  parties,  and  balls, 
secured  for  her  the  attentions  of  some  one  of  the  first 
persons  in  the  company.  She  never  before  had  found 
herself  the  most  passie  of  a  party — and  on  an  occasion, 
too,  when  the  usual  forms  of  precedence  are  not  attended 
to.  Though  she  had  never  sought,  or  valued  attention, 
she  did  not  half  like  the  absence  of  it.  She  never 
wished  for  it  while  she  had  to  repel  it, — it  was  not  till  it 
was  withheld,  that  she  found  she  attached  to  it  any  value 
whatever. 

Mr.  Wroxholme,  however,  was  well  informed  and 
agreeable.  By  degrees  she  found  he  was  acquainted 
with  several  acquaintances  of  hers,  and  the  scenes  which 
they  were  viewing  together  afforded  matter  of  conver- 
sation. 

At  the  breakfast,  or  luncheon,  or  by  whatever  name 
the  repast  might  be  designated,  the  pictures  which 
adorned  tlie  walls  of  the  gallery  were  discussed.  Among 
others,  that  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  with  Madame  do 
la  Valliere's  daughter  at  her  knee,  liady  Blanche  ex- 
claimed with  energy,  "  The  only  redeeming  point  about 
that  hypocritical  old  woman  is  her  having  been  so  good- 
natured  to  poor  dear  Madame  de  la  Valliere's  child  !" 

"  And  may  1  ask  Lady  Blanche  why  she  so  much  pre- 
fers Madame  de  la  Valli^re  to  Madame  de  Maintenon  ?" 


106  '  BLANCHE. 

in  the  softest  voice  imaginable,  inquired  Mr.  Stapleford, 
who  was  rather  fond  of  putting  people  out  of  counte- 
nance. In  this  case  he  perfectly  succeeded  ;  for  though 
it  is  true  that  every  one  loves  the  erring  Madame  de  la 
Valliere,  and  few  have  any  tenderness  for  the  discreet 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  it  would  not  have  been  so  easy 
for  a  young  lady  to  defend  her  feelings  and  opinions  on 
the  subject,  without  entering  into  a  discussion  which 
might  be  rather  awkward. 

This  Lady  Blanche  felt,  and  replied,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  said — "  Everybody  pities  Madame  de  la  Val- 
liere, because  she  was  so  unhappy  !" 

"  Then  every  one  who  suffers  may  hope  to  have  some 
place  in  your  affections,"  whispered  Lord  Glenrith. 

Mr.  Stapleford  replied — "  As  an  approving  conscience 
is  universally  allowed  to  produce  cheerfulness,  I  con- 
clude the  strictly  virtuous  have  no  chance  of  finding 
favour  in  Lady  Blanche's  sight." 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Stapleford,  how  you  misconstrue  every 
thing  one  says  !"  Blanche  blushed,  half  in  confusion, 
half  in  anger.  Mr.  Stapleford  enjoyed  it ;  he  liked  to 
make  women  blush  ; — many  men  do. 

"  I  am  sure  every  one  present  ought  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  me  for  what  I  have  said,  if  it  is  only  for  having 
brought  so  beautiful  a  bloom  into  Lady  Blanche's  cheeks." 

All  eyes  turned  towards  Lady  Blanche,  who  did  in- 
deed blush  over  forehead,  throat,  and  arms,  till  the  tears 
were  ready  to  start  from  her  eyes.  Lord  Glenrith  ut- 
tered in  a  more  severe  tone  than  was  usual  to  a  person 
renowned  for  his  good  nature — 

"One  would  think  Stapleford  had  neither  mother  nor 
sisters  of  his  own,  that  he  should  find  pleasure  in  causing 
a  woman  to  blush."  And  at  the  moment  Lord  Glenrith 
worshipped  Lady  Blanche  as  devoutly  as  he  hated  Mr. 
Stapleford.  Lady  Blanche  felt  grateful  to  him  for  hav- 
ing defended  her,  and  for  having  given  Mr.  Stapleford  a 
reproof 

"  Is  Mr.  Stapleford  a  friend  of  yours  ?"  said  Mr.  Wrox- 
holme  to  Lady  Westhope. 

•'  Not  at  all,"  she  answered :  "  is  he  of  yours  ?" 


BLANCHE.  107 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  he  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  me : 
that  is  a  kind  of  man  I  detest." 

Lady  Westhope  liked  her  new  acquaintance,  for  his 
warmth  and  his  openness. 

The  repast  was  over.  The  personages  already  men- 
tioned sauntered  for  a  short  time  before  their  departure 
among  the  close  walks  and  the  orange-trees.  Lord 
James  Everdon  and  Miss  Eliza  Elwick  were  inseparable ; 
not  that  they  had  the  slightest  preference  for  each  other 
— their  whole  bond  of  union  consisted  in  the  magnificent 
set  of  teeth  with  which  nature  had  favoured  them  both. 
They  were  not  the  least  aware  of  the  reason  they  were 
pleased  with  each  other;  but  it  may  be  remarked,  that 
those  who  have  bad  teeth  do  not  find  themselves  so  com- 
fortable with  a  companion  who  makes  them  laugh,  as 
with  one  whose  conversation  is  more  serious  ;  while  a 
person  with  fine  teeth  discovers  a  point  in  many  a  jest, 
which  to  one  who  is  conscious  of  any  thing  defective  in 
that  respect  would  appear  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable. 
Many  flirtations  might  be  traced  home  to  similarity  of 
teeth,  which  have  passed  for  congeniality  of  disposition. 

When  they  arrived  at  home,  the  two  friends  talked 
over  the  day.  "  Who  in  the  world  is  your  Mr.  Wrox- 
holme  ?"  said  Lady  Blanche. 

"  I  assure  you  he  is  a  very  agreeable  man,"  replied 
Lady  Westhope,  anxious  he  should  appear  to  have  been 
her  companion  by  choice  rather  than  from  necessity. 

"  What  is  he  by  birth  and  parentage  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  but  he  is  acquainted  with  several 
people  who  are  mutual  friends  ;  I  shall  invite  him  to  my 
parties  next  spring.  I  think  he  will  be  a  great  acquisi- 
tion." 

*'  What  an  odious  man  Mr.  Stapleford  is  I  I  always 
disliked  his  quiet  sarcastic  manner  of  dropping  out  just 
the  thing  that  is  most  disagreeable  ;  and  I  was  so  much 
obliged  to  the  dear,  good,  honest  Lord  Glenrith,  for  giv- 
ing him  a  lecture,  which  ought  to  have  made  him  look 
foolish." 

"  How  handsome  Lord  Glenrith  is  !"  said  Lady  West- 
hope,  curious  to  know  how  Blanche  felt  towards  him. 


lOS  BLANCHE. 

"  Yes  !  he  certainly  is  handsome  ;  but  he  has  too  much 
colour,  and  he  looks  so  very  healthy  and  robust !  1  do 
not  think  his  countenance  could  express  unhappiness.  1 
like  a  man  to  look  serious  and  thoughtful,  as  if  he  was  full 
of  feeling,  and  as  if  his  gayety  was  just  a  bright  gleam 
of  sunshine,  the  more  brilliant  for  the  gloom  which  pre- 
cedes and  follows  it.  Nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  the 
smile  of  a  countenance  habitually  melancholy." 

Lady  Westhope  perceived  that,  notwithstanding  her 
pique,  Blanche  had  not  forgotten  De  Molton. 

They  returned  to  England.  T!ie  London  season  was 
nearly  over;  parliament  did  not  sit  late;  there  was  no 
business  which  required  Lord  Faikingham's  presence, 
and  Blanche  joined  her  parents  in  the  country,  where 
they  had  already  established  themselves ;  but  as  she  passed 
through  London,  she  went  to  the  play  with  the  West- 
hopes.  They  were  leaving  the  theatre  when  they  met 
Captain  De  Molton  on  the  stairs.  He  rushed  to  them 
with  a  face  in  which  the  much-admired  smile  usurped 
the  place  of  the  melancholy  which  Lady  Blanche  also 
admired.  He  asked  her  if  she  was  staying  in  London  : 
she  replied  she  was  going  to  Temple  Loseley  the  next 
day. 

"  Then  I  must  esteem  myself  fortunate  to  have  caught 
even  this  glimpse  of  you." 

"  Oh,  but  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  in  the  country." 

They  were  both  thrown  off  their  guard  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  meeting,  and  their  looks  and  their  manner 
proclaimed  the  state  of  their  feelings  as  much  as  it  was 
possible  for  them  to  do  so,  in  descending  the  last  ten  steps 
of  the  private  box  entrance.  But  he  had  handed  her  into 
the  carriage — the  door  was  closed — she  was  gone — be- 
fore he  had  time  to  answer  the  sort  of  half-invitation  con- 
tained in  Lady  Blanche's  last  words. 

Blanche  had  much  to  tell  her  mother;  all  she  had 
heard,  all  she  had  seen,  but  not  all  she  had  felt.  Lady 
Falkingham  was  reserved  with  her  children :  she  was 
above  all  weaknesses  herself,  and  never  seemed  to  con- 
template the  possibility  that  younger  minds  might  not  be 


BLANCHE. 


109 


SO  well  regulated,  younger  feelings  might  not  be  so  sober 
and  temperate,  as  her  own. 

The  summer  passed  quietly;  Blanche  rode  with  her 
father,  gardened  with  her  mother,  and  tried  to  think  no 
more  of  a  person  who  felt  nothing  for  her.  Had  she  not 
most  unguardedly,  most  imprudently,  almost  invited  him 
to  Temple  Loseley?  She  forgot  that,  not  being  ac- 
quainted with  her  parents,  it  was  absolutely  impossible 
he  could  act  upon  such  a  hint.  She  only  remembered 
that  she  had  advanced  a  step  which  had  not  been  met  by 
him,  and  she  recalled  what  she  had  heard  and  read  a 
thousand  times,  that  a  lover  can  generally  create  an  op- 
portunity for  seeing  his  beloved  :  hovi'  much  easier,  then, 
to  improve  one  that  presents  itself!  The  only  conclusion 
therefore  to  be  drawn  was,  that  she  was  an  object  of  per- 
fect indifference  to  him. 

In  September  a  party  was  collected  for  shooting  ;  and, 
among  others.  Lord  Glenrith  accepted  with  joy  and  ea- 
gerness an  invitation  to  Temple  Loseley. 

Lord  and  Lady  Falkingham  rejoiced  to  see  so  fair  a 
prospect  opening  before  Blanche.  Lord  Glenrith  was 
particularly  good-tempered  ;  he  was  heir  to  a  fine  prop- 
erty ;  there  was  not  an  objection  to  him.  Lady  Falking- 
ham, whose  health  was  very  delicate,  was  much  relieved 
by  the  idea  that  she  need  never  again  pass  from  twelve 
till  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  seated  on  the  blue  sofas  at 
Almack's,  her  head  nodding  with  sleep  under  the  plumes 
which  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  place  upon  it. 

Blanche  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that  Lord  Glenrith 
was  serious  in  his  attentions  :  it  was  impossible  to  dislike 
him  ;  he  was  an  honest,  genuine  creature  ;  he  loved  her 
sincerely,  admired  her,  and  respected  her:  he  was  not 
wanting  in  sense  or  information.  Had  not  her  mind  been 
prepossessed,  she  would  most  likely  have  been  in  love 
with  him  ;  at  least,  ninety-nine  girls  in  a  hundred  would 
have  been  so,  and  ought  to  have  been  so.  He  proposed  : 
her  parents  were  delighted  ;  she  was  sorry,  although  she 
preferred  him  to  any  one  else,  except  Captain  De  Molton. 
Yet,  what  nonsense  to  allow  her  imagination  to  dwell 

VOL.  II. — K 


110  BLANCHE. 

upon  a  person  who  cared  not  for  her  !  Should  she  refuse 
an  excellent  man,  who  was  sincerely  attached  to  her — a 
connection  with  whom  would  delight  her  own  parents, 
and  his  parents,  and  all  their  mutual  connections — for  the 
sake  of  a  penniless  captain,  who  cut  her — positively  cut 
her  ?  It  would  be  the  height  of  folly :  there  would  be 
a  want  of  pride  in  continuing  to  pine  for  an  indifferent 
swain.  So,  as  she  had  no  good  reason  to  adduce,  either 
to  herself  or  to  others  for  saying  "  No,"  she  said  "  Yes," 
and  she  was  engaged. 

This  great  event  took  place  a  few  days  before  the  Falk- 
inghatn  family  paid  a  long-promised  visit  to  the  Westhopes. 
Lord  Glenrith  was  to  have  joined  the  party  at  the  end  of 
the  week ;  but,  as  the  accepted  lover,  he  obtained  leave 
to  accompany  them  to  Cransley. 

His  sterling  worth  gained  upon  Blanche  every  day ; 
there  was  something  so  English,  so  true,  so  generous 
about  him.  Her  parents  were  quite  delighted  with  his 
sentiments  upon  all  subjects  connected  with  settlemenls. 
She  heard  him  praised  from  morning  till  night,  and  she 
was  beginning  to  persuade  herself  that  she  ought  to  be, 
and  that  she  was,  exceedingly  happy,  when  they  arrived 
at  Cransley. 

The  sight  of  Lady  Westhope  reminded  her  of  Paris, 
and  of  all  she  had  felt  when  there  ;  and  she  w'as  shocked 
to  find  she  still  retained  such  vivid  recollections  of  inci- 
dents the  most  trivial  in  themselves.  Mr.  Wroxholme 
had  arrived  the  day  before ;  and  at  dinner  Lord  West- 
hope  remarked,  "  We  shall  be  quite  the  old  Paris  party 
on  Friday,  when  De  Molton  comes." 

Lady  Blanche  was  listening  to  Lord  Glenrith's  descrip- 
tion of  his  father's  place,  Wentnor  Castle  ;  but  she  was 
not  so  absorbed  in  the  subject  but  that  these  words  caught 
her  ear.  She  gave  an  involuntary  start ;  she  felt  Lady 
Westhope  look  at  her  ;  she  felt  herself  colour.  But  her 
start  and  her  blush  were  unobserved  :  Lord  Glenrith  was 
completely  occupied  in  explaining  how  the  seclusion  of 
the  south  and  west  fronts  of  the  castle,  and  of  the  broad 
terrace  overlooking  the  rapid  stream  of  the  Dwent,  was 


^ 


BLANCHE.  Ill 

preserved  by  the  alteration  in  the  road,  which  now  ap- 
proached the  gateway  from  the  northeast,  instead  of  the 
northwest. 

If  Lord  Glenrith  had  a  fault,  or  rather  a  foible,  it  was 
his  passion  for  his  native  place,  and  an  inclination  to  think 
every  thing  belonging  to  himself  superior  to  that  which 
belonged  to  another.  He  seldom  sold  a  horse  ;  for  when 
once  he  had  possessed  it,  he  became  so  alive  to  its  merits, 
that  he  always  asked  more  for  it  than  others,  who  were 
not  so  clear-sighted,  thought  it  was  worth.  This  is  a 
happy  disposition  for  the  possessor  and  for  those  con- 
nected with  him.  It  is  seldom  that  such  a  person  makes 
an  unkind  husband,  or  a  tyrannical  father,  or  a  hard  mas- 
ter ;  but  it  is  not  a  quality  that  interests  a  romantic  girl. 
Lady  Blanche,  however,  thought,  "  Captain  De  Molton 
shall  see  I  am  not  pining ;  he  shall  see  that  his  friend  can 
appreciate  me,  if  he  cannot." 

Mr.  Wroxholme  proved,  upon  further  acquaintance,  to 
be  a  very  agreeable  addition  to  the  society.  He  had 
read  much,  and  was  full  of  information.  Lord  Falking- 
ham  pronounced  him  to  be  one  of  the  most  rising  young 
men  of  the  day.  Mr.  Wroxholme,  on  his  part,  was  de- 
lighted with  Lord  Falkingham's  political  sentiments,  with 
Lady  Falkingham's  high  breeding,  with  Lady  Westhope's 
gentleness,  with  Lord  Westhope's  good-humour  and  ease 
in  his  own  house,  with  Lord  Glenrilh's  downright  happi- 
ness, with  Lady  Blanche's  beauty,  with  the  good  shooting, 
and  the  beautiful  place  ;  and  he  felt  gratitude  to  Lady 
Westhope  for  having  given  him  the  opportunity  of  enjoy- 
ing society  so  much  to  his  taste. 

He  was  a  man  of  good  birth ;  but,  though  born  and 
bred  a  gentleman,  he  had  not  before  mixed  in  the  very 
first  circles,  and  he  was  flattered  at  being  deemed  worthy 
of  admission  into  one  of  them.  He  had  discrimination 
enough  to  be  pleased  with  the  shade  of  superior  refine- 
ment which  pervaded  it,  and  tact  enough  instantly  to 
acquire  its  tone. 

When  Lady  Westhope  found  herself  alone  with  Lady 
Blanche,  she  never  alluded  to  Captain  De  Molton  ;  she 


H3  BLANCHE. 

felt  that  the  less  that  was  said  upon  the  subject  the 
better. 

Blanche  had  treated  his  departure  from  Paris  as  wilful 
neglect  of  her,  and  she  had  laughed  at  his  indifference. 
Although  in  her  heart  Lady  Westhope  believed  she  had 
felt  it  acutely,  it  was  wiser  to  treat  the  whole  affair  as  a 
trifling  flirtation,  which  had  left  no  trace  behind.  She 
was  sorry  Lord  Westhope  had  invited  Captain  De  Mol- 
lon  at  this  moment,  but  it  was  one  of  those  things  for 
which  there  was  no  remedy.  He  and  Ladj  Blanche 
must  meet  some  time  or  another,  and  the  sooner  it  was 
over  the  better. 

Lady  Blanche,  meantime,  continued  to  receive  Lord 
Glenrith's  attentions,  and  to  find  her  imagination  more 
and  more  inclined  to  wander,  and  her  mind  less  and  less 
able  to  take  in  the  relative  positions  of  the  stables,  the 
kitchen-garden,  and  the  coachhouses  of  Wentnor  Castle. 


CHAPTER  HL 

Dicen  que  amor  ha  vencido 
A  los  deydades  mayores, 
Y  que  de  sus  pasadores 
Cielo  y  tierra  esta  ofendido. 

Sj)anish  Romance. 

During  the  four  months  which  intervened  between 
Captain  De  Molton's  leaving  Paris  and  his  joining  the 
party  at  Cransley,  how  had  he  passed  his  time  ?  He 
was  a  person  of  much  determination  of  character ;  and 
when  once  he  had  made  up  his  mind  what  was  right, 
he  could,  generally  speaking,  carry  his  resolutions  into 
effect ;  at  least,  it  was  only  when  his  feelings,  naturally 
strong,  were  immediately  under  excitement,  that  he  was 
betrayed  into  actions  of  which  his  judgment  did  not 
approve. 


BLANCHE.*  113 

To  Lord  Glenrith  he  owed  an  early  debt  of  gratitude  ; 
their  friendship  dated  from  boyhood.  At  Eton  they  had 
been  bathing  together,  when  De  Molton  was  seized  with 
the  cramp,  and  must  have  perished,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  exertions  of  his  young  schoolfellow.  This  and  many 
other  acts  of  kindness,  which  the  rich  heir  of  Wentnor 
Castle  was  naturally  enabled  to  show  to  the  penniless 
seventh  son  and  thirteenth  child  of  the  distressed  Lord 
Cumberworth,  made  De  Molton's  friendship  for  Glenrith 
partake  in  some  measure  of  the  nature  of  gratitude.  He 
felt  it  would  be  doubly  base  in  him  to  attempt  to  gain  the 
affections  of  the  girl  to  whom  Lord  Glenrith  owned  him- 
self attached,  even  if,  with  regard  to  Lady  Blanche  her- 
self, it  would  not  have  been  ungenerous  to  drag  her 
from  her  exalted  sphere  into  poverty  and  destitution 
with  him. 

He  went  straight  to  his  regiment,  and  devoted  himself 
with  particular  energy  to  teachinghis  men  the  new  manoeu- 
vres recommended  by  the  Horse-guards.  Never  were  men 
so  well  appointed ;  never  was  troop  in  such  ®rder.  But  his 
fellow-officers  at  the  mess  found  him  somewhat  moody 
and  silent ;  he  was  not  a  jolly  companion  ;  and  although 
all  respected  him — yes,  and  loved  him  too,  and  would 
have  applied  to  him  for  advice  and  comfort  in  any  dis- 
tress— he  was  not,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the 
word,  a  popular  man.  It  was  not  Dc  Molton  who  was 
asked  to  ride  this  fellow's  horse  at  the  hack  stakes  got  up 
in  the  regiment ;  or  De  Molton  to  whom  another  fellow 
proposed  to  gallop  forty  miles  to  London  to  see  the  new 
actress,  and  down  again  at  night ;  or  to  jump  into  a  hack- 
chaise  after  dinner  and  drive  off  to  the  tradesmen's  ball 
at  the  county  town ;  but  if  any  dutiful  son  wished  to 
prolong  his  visit  to  his  parents,  or  any  pining  lover  had 
an  opportunity  of  flying  to  his  mistress,  he  felt  pretty  sure 
that  De  Molton  would  take  his  duty  for  him.  Plis  man- 
ners were  a  little  stately,  and  a  youngster  was  not  likely 
to  choose  De  Molton  as  the  confidant  of  any  foolish 
scrape  ;  yet  no  one  was  more  ready  to  sympathize  with, 
and  to  relieve,  any  case  of  unmerited  distress. 

He  chanced  to  be  in  London  one  of  the  days  that 
K  2 


114  BLAIVCUE. 

Lady  Blanche  passed  there  in  her  way  from  Paris  ;  and 
he  had  been  attending  his  mother  and  three  of  his  six 
sisters  to  the  play,  on  the  night  \Yhen  he  saw  Lady 
Blanche. 

It  was  with  an  uncontrollable  burst  of  joy  that  he 
rushed  to  hand  her  down  the  steps ;  and  this  brief  inter- 
view sufficed  to  unsettle  in  his  heart  all  the  reasonable 
acquiescence  in  the  disposition  of  their  fates  which  he 
had  been  striving  to  attain. 

When  he  received  Lord  Westhope's  invitation,  he  cer- 
tainly did  not  think  it  quite  impossible  he  might  meet 
Lady  Blanche ;  but  he  persuaded  himself  that  he  had, 
in  four  months,  allowed  his  friend  all  proper  time  for 
making  himself  acceptable  ;  and  that  there  was  no  neces- 
sity for  his  refusing  the  accustomed  invitation  to  a  house, 
to  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  paying  an  annual  visit. 
At  all  events,  he  should  learn  from  Lady  Westhope 
what  was  the  state  of  the  case  :  any  thing  was  better  than 
the  uncertainty  in  which  he  lived. 

Lady  Blanche's  manner,  when  he  met  her  on  the 
dimly  lighted  stairs  of  the  theatre,  had  made  him  vaguely 
hope — he  knew  not  what ;  for,  supposing  they  did  love 
each  other,  what  then  was  to  happen  ?  He  repeat- 
edly asked  himself  this  question ;  but  did  any  one  ever 
wish  that  the  person  beloved  should  not  return  his  love  ? 
De  Molton  was  a  very  reasonable  man  ;  he  kept  his  feel- 
ings under  great  control ;  but  they  were  strong  and 
ardent,  and  he  could  not  reach  that  pitch  of  stoicism  I 

To  Cransley  he  went,  with  a  mind  distracted  by  doubt, 
wonder,  hope,  and  fear.  As  he  drove  to  the  door,  he 
saw  Lord  Falkingham  dismounting  from  his  cob  ;  so  he 
knew  that  Lady  Blanche  was  in  the  house.  "  How  will 
she  meet  me  ?"  he  thought ;  "  how  shall  I  find  her  ?  how 
shall  I  regulate  my  own  behaviour?"  and  he  almost 
repented  having  wilfully  run  into  such  danger ;  although, 
in  truth,  it  was  the  hope  of  being  placed  in  that  very 
danger  which  had  made  him  so  gladly  accept  Lord  West- 
hope's  invitation. 

He  was  giving  his  orders  to  his  servant  at  the  door, 
when  he  saw  Lord  Glenrith  approach  the  house  in 


% 

BLANCHE.  115 

shooting  costume,  followed  by  keepers  and  dogs.  He 
could  not  mistake  the  bright,  happy  face  of  his  friend. 
His  teeth  gleamed  as  the  setting  sun  shone  on  them ;  his 
cheek  was  sunburnt,  and  ruddy  with  exercise;  his 
kind  eyes  beamed  with  honest  joy  to  see  De  Molton. 
De  Molton's  heart  sank  within  him  as  he  recognised  his 
dear  friend  ;  and  it  was  with  an  etTort,  which  would  have 
been  visible  to  any  other  eyes,  that  he  returned  his  cor- 
dial greeting. 

As  they  both  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  pale  coun- 
tenance and  melancholy  brow  of  De  Molton  would,  in 
the  opinion  of  many,  have  set  off  to  advantage  the  gay 
good-liumour  of  Lord  Glenrith. 

The  ladies  were  all  there.  Lady  Blanche  shook  hands 
with  Captain  De  Molton  as  soon  as  he  had  paid  his 
devoirs  to  Lady  Westhope ;  and,  without  having  raised 
her  eyes  higher  than  to  his  chin,  reseated  herself  to  her 
embroidery  frame. 

Lord  Glenrith  approached  her.  De  Molton's  heart 
beat  quick :  he  felt  almost  giddy.  Lord  Glenrith's  man- 
ner was  gay  and  unembarrassed  :  he  held  a  parcel  in  his 
hand.  Lady  Falkingham  drew  near :  there  was  a  great 
colloquy :  De  Molton  heard  the  expressions,  "  Beau- 
tiful !" — "  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw  !" — "  they  tell  me  it  is 
the  first  that  has  been  made  !" — "  well,  how  lovely  !" 
Lady  Blanche  seemed  to  be  expressing  her  thanks,  but  in 
so  low  a  tone  of  voice  he  could  not  catch  the  words. 
She  looked  blushingly  beautiful !  Lady  Falkingham 
moved  a  little  on  one  side,  and  he  saw  Lord  Glenrith  in 
the  act  of  fastening  a  bracelet  on  her  arm.  Perhaps 
another  lover  might  not  have  selected  such  a  moment 
for  presenting  his  first  love-token,  but  the  parcel  was  only 
just  arrived.  Lord  Glenrith  was  pleased  with  his  pur- 
chase :  all  around  were  friends ;  and  why  should  there 
be  any  mystery  ? 

To  De  Molton's  eyes  all  mystery  was,  indeed,  dis- 
pelled. He  felt  choking.  He  could  not  master  his 
feelings  sufficiently  to  preserve  an  indifibrent  counte- 
nance, and  he  left  the  room  under  the  pretence  of  seeing 
after  his  postboy,  or  his  portmanteau. 


116  BLANCHE. 

The  rest  of  the  company  gathered  around  the  bride 
elect,  and  admired  the  beautiful  ornament,  and  discussed 
its  peculiar  fabric ;  while  poor  Blanche  sat  frightened  at 
the  agitation  which  pervaded  her  whole  frame  in  conse- 
quence of  having  been  for  five  minutes  in  the  society  of 
De  Molton. 

However,  when  she  retired  to  her  own  room  before 
dinner,  she  satisfied  herself  that  what  she  had  felt  was 
merely  a  very  natural  awkwardness  at  first  meeting  a 
person  with  whom  slie  had  certainly  flirted  a  little,  and 
shyness  at  being  seen  by  a  young  man  acquaintance,  in 
the  act  of  receiving  her  lover's  first  present.  She  could 
not  help  secretly  wishing  Lord  Glenrith  had  not  given 
the  bracelet  before  so  many  witnesses  ;  and  she  felt  there 
was  a  want  of  delicacy  in  the  proceeding,  even  while  she 
told  herself  it  was  in  unison  with  his  open,  unsuspicious 
character,  which  measured  the  kindliness  of  others  by  his 
own  good-natured  heart. 

At  dinner  De  Molton  placed  himself  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  table,  and  the  epergne  prevented  his  being  able  to 
perceive  Lady  Blanche's  face.  However,  he  saw  Lord 
Glenrith's  ;  and  never  did  an  honest  countenance  express 
more  secure  and  undisturbed  happiness.  PoorDeMolton  ! 
He  had  quitted  Paris  on  purpose  not  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  that  happiness  which  his  friend  had  obtained  ; 
and  now,  how  painful  was  it  to  see  the  object  accom- 
plished ! 

During  the  evening.  Lady  Westhope  contrived,  in  as 
quiet  a  manner  as  she  could,  to  convey  to  De  Molton  the 
confirmation  of  a  fact  which  was  already  too  evident  to 
his  eyes ;  and  she  appeared  not  to  remark  the  varying 
hues  of  his  complexion,  and  the  agitation  of  his  manner, 
during  her  communication. 

Lady  Blanche  strove  to  be  easy  and  unembarrassed  ; 
and  she  succeeded  so  far  as  to  make  him  believe  her 
happy,  and  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  prospect  before 
her. 

He  resolved  to  plead  particular  and  sudden  business — 
a  summons  from  his  father — a  relation  at  the  point  of 
death — any  excuse  to  depart  the  following  day.     This 


BLANCHE.  1 17 

torture  was  not  to  be  endured.  Yet  he  wished  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  once,  and  of  telling  her 
how  ardently  he  prayed  for  her  welfare. 

He  left  his  room  very  early  the  next  morning ;  and  he 
perambulated  the  library,  the  saloon,  the  breakfast-room, 
the  hall.  He  knew  Lady  Blanche  was  an  early  riser ; 
Cransley  was  renowned  for  the  lateness  of  its  breakfast- 
hour  ;  perhaps  she  would  make  her  appearance  before 
the  other  guests.  He  was  not  wrong  in  his  calculations. 
Lady  Blanche  came  into  the  drawing-room  to  look  for 
her  mother's  work-basket ;  and  was  hastily  retiring  with 
it,  when  De  Molton  arrested  her  steps  by  saying,  that, 
as  he  was  obliged  to  depart  in  an  hour,  he  was  anxious  to 
express  to  one,  for  whom  he  felt  such  esteem  and  ad- 
miration, his  earnest  wishes — his  prayers  for  her  hap- 
piness. 

"  You  are  not  going  to-day,  surely,  Captain  De  Mol- 
ton?" answered  Blanche  in  a  tremulous  tone. 

"  I  must,"  he  said :  "  I  could  not,  would  not  stay 
here  another  day,  for  any  thing  this  world  could  now 
offer  me." 

"  Lady  Westhope  will  be  quite  disappointed.  She 
hoped  you  were  come  for  ten  days,  or  a  fortnight." 

"  Such  was  my  intention  ;  but  circumstances — impera- 
tive circumstances  over  which  i  have  no  control,  render 
my  stay  here — impossible." 

"  I  hope  no  misfortune  has  occurred  in  your  family?" 
inquired  Lady  Blanche,  thoroughly  impressed  with  the 
idea  of  his  indifference  towards  herself,  and,  conse- 
quently, by  no  means  attributing  his  visible  agitation  to 
its  true  cause. 

"  No  misfortune  has  occurred  in  my  family,"  he  re- 
sumed in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion — "  but  one  to  myself. 
No — no  !  it  is  not  a  misfortune  :  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
thing  in  the  world  I  ought  most  to  wish ;  it  is  the  union 
of  the  two  beings  I  most  value,  most  respect,  most  love 
on  earth  !  I  ought  to  rejoice — 1  do  rejoice.  Believe 
me,  Lady  Blanche,  though  my  voice  falters,  and  I  am  at 
this  moment  weak,  I  rejoice  that  the  friend  to  whom  I 
am  bound  by  every  tie  of  gratitude  and  affection  has 


118 


BLANCHE. 


gained  the  heart  of  the  most  perfect  of  womankind  ; 
and  that  the  woman  who  alone  in  my  eyes  is  perfect,  is 
hkely  to  be  happy  with  a  man  who  is  all  honour,  truth, 
and  uprightness.  May  Heaven  in  its  mercy  bless  you 
both !" 

The  tears  stood  in  De  Molton's  glistening  eyes.  They 
almost  overflowed.  "I  am  a  fool,"  he  added  ;  "  I 
thought  1  had  more  command  over  myself;  I  did  not 
mean  to  torment  you,  to  insult  you,  with  an  avowal  of  my 
hopeless,  my  presumptuous  love  1" 

Lady  Blanche  had  stood  transfixed  in  fear,  amaze- 
ment, joy  ; — yes,  joy  !  there  are  no  circumstances  under 
which  it  is  not  joy  to  find  affection  is  requited.  "  And 
do  you  indeed  love  me  V  she  said,  scarcely  conscious  of 
what  she  uttered. 

"  Do  I  love  you  !  Lady  Blanche,  can  you  ask  that 
question  ?  In  folly,  hopelessness,  misery,  I  cannot — can- 
not quell  my  love  1" 

*'  Oh,  why — why  did  you  not  tell  me  sooner  ?"  she 
said,  earnestly  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Tell  j-ou  so  !  How  could  I  venture,  penniless  as  I 
am,  without  a  home  to  offer  you, — how  could  I  have  the 
insane  presumption  to  ask  you  to  share  poverty,  penury 
with  me,  when  splendour,  rank,  wealth  were  courting 
5^our  acceptance  ?" 

"  Oh,  1  despise  these  things  !  I  always  did  !  I  never 
could  care  for  money  in  all  my  life,  and  now  !"  She 
stopped  ;  her  engagement  rushed  across  her  mind.  She 
felt  guilty  of  perjury  and  infidelity. 

De  Molton,  in  his  turn,  stood  confounded  ;  he  had 
done  every  thing  he  had  especially  resolved  not  to  do, 
and  mingled  with  the  delight  he  could  not  help  expe- 
riencing at  the  avowal  which  had  almost  escaped  Lady 
Blanche's  lips,  he  felt  humiliated  by  the  base  part  he  had 
acted  towards  the  friend  to  whom  he  had  meant  to  de- 
vote himself  He  struck  his  forehead,  and  exclaimed, 
'•  Oh,  Lady  Blanche,  I  am  a  wretch  not  worthy  of  a  mo- 
ment's regard  !  Do  not  waste  a  thought  on  me  ;  forget 
me,  or  at  least  only  remember  me  to  bestow  a  sigh  of  pity 
on  one  who  has  been  betrayed  by  his  love  for  you  into  an 


BLANCHE.  119 

act  of  ingratitude  for  which  he  abhors  himself.  Glenrith 
is  my  best  friend  ;  he  is  the  soul  of  honour,  he — he  is 
worthy  of  you  !" 

Lady  Blanche  was  frightened  at  what  she  had  said — 
frightened  at  what  she  had  listened  to.  Voices  were 
heard  approaching, — the  door  opened, — Captain  De  Mol- 
ton  rushed  into  the  adjoining  library.  Lady  Blanche 
seized  her  mother's  basket,  and  left  the  room  before  she 
had  time  to  perceive  who  the  intruders  were.  As  she 
ran  up-stairs,  she  met  Lady  Westhope.  "  What  is  the 
matter,  Blanche  ?"  exclaimed  Lady  Westhope,  as  her 
friend  darted  past  her. 

"  Mamma  wants  me,"  she  hastily  answered,  as  she 
took  refuge  in  her  mother's  room. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !"  she  exclaimed,  throwing  her- 
self breathless  into  a  chair ;  "  I  am  wretched,  guilty,  and 
miserable  !  I  am  the  most  unfortunate  creature  in  the 
world  !" 

"  What  possesses  you,  child  ?  what  is  the  matter  ?"  re- 
replied  Lady  Falkingham,  as  she  put  down  the  untasted 
piece  of  toast  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Mamma  !  he  loves  ms  after  all !" 

"  Who,  my  dear  1 — what !  Lord  Glenrith  ?  To  be 
sure  he  does  !  I  never  saw  a  man  more  attached  in  my 
life !" 

"  Poor  dear  Lord  Glenrith,  so  he  is  !  Oh  how  little 
I  deserve  that  he  should  be  so  !  when  I — oh,  mamma, 
what  will  you  think  of  me  ?  I  have  almost  owned  that 
my  affections  are — at  least  I  implied — oh,  mamma ! 
what  shall  I  do  ?"     And  poor  Blanche  wept  bitterly. 

"Certainly,  my  dear  Blanche,  I  do  not  consider  it 
modest  and  becoming  in  any  young  woman  to  allow  a 
man  to  perceive  that  he  had  acquired  too  much  power 
over  her  heart ;  yet,  as  you  are  on  the  point  of  marriage, 
I  think  you  need  not  blame  yourself  so  very  much. 
There  should  always  be  a  certain  reserve  of  manner 
and  expression  ;  but  anxious  as  I  am  that  women  should 
preserve  their  dignity,  and  that  no  daughter  of  mine 
should  condescend — " 


120  BLANCHE. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  you  do  not  understand  me  :  I  never 
told  Glenrith  I  loved  him." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  then  ? — what  are  you 
talking  about  ?"  Lady  Falkingham's  countenance  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  alarm,  wonder,  and  displeasure. 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you  1 — you,  mamma,  who  never 
did  any  thing  weak,  or  foolish,  in  your  life  !  Do  not 
look  at  me,  mamma,  with  those  stern  and  reproachful 
eyes,  or  I  can  never  confess  it." 

"  Blanche,  you  alarm  me  more  than  I  can  describe. 
Do  you  mean  that  you  love  any  one  better  than  the 
man  whom  you  have  accepted  as  your  husband, — the 
excellent,  amiable,  high-minded  Lord  Glenrith,  whois  so 
sincerely  devoted  to  you?" 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  I  do  value  him,  and  I  render  him  jus- 
tice, indeed ;  and  I  love  him  in  a  kind  of  way — " 

Lady  Blanche  was  each  moment  becoming  more  alive 
to  the  ingratitude,  the  duplicity,  with  which  she  had  acted 
towards  Lord  Glenrith,  and  began  to  wish  she  had  not 
opened  the  subject  at  all  to  her  mother. 

"  Explain  yourself,  Blanche,"  repeated  her  mother : 
"whom  are  you  talking  of?  Is  it  Mr.  Wroxholme, 
whom  you  met  at  Paris  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  mamma.  It  is  Captain  De  Molton  I" 
And  she  no  longer  found  any  difficulty  in  speaking  his 
name.  Mr.  Wroxholme  might  be  a  very  good  man,  but 
in  her  eyes  was  immeasurably  inferior  to  the  object  of 
her  preference.  Those  who  are  in  love,  always  resent 
as  an  injury  the  suspicion  that  they  could  find  charms  in 
any  other  than  the  one  person  to  whose  merits  they  are 
alive, 

"Captain  De  Molton  !'  exclaimed  Lady  Falkingham  ; 
"  why,  I  scarcely  ever  heard  you  mention  him  !  You 
ought  to  have  told  me  this  before." 

"  1  never  knew  till  to-day  what  were  his  feelings  to- 
wards me,  mamma  I" 

"  I  must  say  your  lover  has  chosen  a  good  moment 
for  avowing  his  passion  !  It  proves  an  honourable  mind  ! 
And  he  wishes  to  induce  you  to  break  off  your  marriage 
with  a  man  in  every  way  calculated  to  make  you  happy  ? 


BLANCHE.  121 

For  what  ?  He  has  scarcely  bread  to  eat  himself,  anji 
his  father  has  none  to  give  him." 

"  He  iinows  all  that,  mamifia,  and  he  is  going  away 
this  moment.  He  does  not  ask  me  to  marry  him.  He 
says  he  is  not  worthy  of  me." 

"  Oh,  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  and  you  allow  this  man, 
who  tells  you  he  cannot  marry,  to  make  love  to  you, 
while  you  are  the  affianced  wife  of  his  friend  !  1  should 
never  have  thought  a  daughter  of  mine  would  act  in  so 
improper,  so  unprincipled  a  manner.  Heaven  knows,  I 
cannot  accuse  myself  of  having  neglected  my  children. 
You  have  all  had  every  attention  paid  to  your  minds  and 
your  morals.  Each  hour  had  its  avocation  ;  you  were 
never  permitted  to  read  a  book  which  Miss  Strictland  or 
myself  had  not  previously  perused  ;  you  were  never  al- 
lowed to  walk  beyond  the  shrubberies  and  the  park  !  If, 
hke  some  mothers,  I  had  nei^lccted  the  essentials  for  the 
sake  of  accomplishments — but  the  religion-master  always 
came  three  times  a  week !  How  on  earth  can  such  low 
notions  of  moral  rectitude  ever  have  found  entrance  into 
your  head,  or  your  heart '?" 

Lady  Blanche  was  in  despair  at  her  mother's  grief. 
She  now  viewed  her  own  conduct  with  horror  ;  but  how 
to  meet  Lord  Glenrith,  with  this  weight  of  guilt  upon  her 
mind  ? 

"Look  here,"  continued  Ijady  Falkingham  ;  "read 
this  letter;  all  kindness  and  generosity — receiving  you 
into  the  family  with  joy,  treating  you  already  as  if  you 
were  their  daughter!"  Lady  Falkingham  gave  Blanche 
the  joint  epistle  she  had  received  from  Lord  and  Lady 
Wentnor,  expressing  every  thing  most  gratifying  con- 
cerning the  choice  their  son  had  made. 

Each  word  she  read  was  a  dagjijer  to  Lady  Blanche's 
heart.  "  1  cannot  overthrow  all  the  happiness  of  these 
worthy  people,"  she  mentally  revolved,  "and  that  of  my 
parents,  an(l  of  poor  Glenrith.  I  must  quell  this  foolish 
inclination ;  I  must  fight  a  good  fijjht,  and  I  shall  con- 
quer, I  daresay.  But  it  is  hard,  when  now,  for  the  first 
time,  I  know  myself  beloved." 

After  a  pause,  she  told  her  mother  she  would  try  to 

VOL.  II. L 


122  BLANCHE. 

compose  herself:  she  implored  her  not  to  mention  the 
subject  to  her  father  ;  she  strove  to  persuade  her  mother 
and  herself,  that  it  was  only  a  passing  feeling,  a  momen- 
tary agitation  which  would  soon  subside ;  that  it  had 
been  pique,  that  it  was  now  gratified  vanity — any  thing, 
in  short,  except  love.  Her  mother  was  only  too  glad  to 
be  deceived,  and  assisted  her  in  self-deception. 

Lady  Falkingham  would  have  been  very  sorry  to  lose 
so  estimable  and  so  unexceptionable  a  husband  for  her 
daughter ;  but  the  disgraceful  eclat  of  breaking  off  an 
engagement  openly  entered  into  and  acknowledged,  was 
still  more  appalling  to  a  person  who  had  a  salutary  horror 
of  being  "  talked  of."  She  had  herself  passed  through 
life  with  the  highest  character  as  a  wife  and  as  a  mother. 
Her  elder  daughters  had  married  at  a  proper  age,  and  in 
a  proper  manner.  She  looked  upon  a  young  lady's  first 
love  as  a  silly  affair,  which  has  more  to  do  with  the 
imagination  than  the  heart ;  and  if  any  of  her  other 
daughters  had  ever  felt  a  preference  which  had  not  re- 
ceived their  mother's  sanction,  they  would  never  have 
ventured  to  confess  it  with  that  frankness  which,  in  spite 
of  the  education  just  described  by  Lady  Falkingham,  was 
one  of  Blanche's  characteristics. 


BLANCHE.  123 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Now  have  I  showed  you  both,  these  whyche  ye  lyst, 

Stately  fortune,  or  humble  povertee  : 
That  is  to  say,  now  lyeth  it  in  your  fyst 

To  take  here  bondage  or  free  libertee. 

Sir  Thomas  Moee. 

Captain  De  Molton  had  sent  his  servant  to  the 
neighbouring  town  to  procure  him  a  chaise,  that  with 
the  least  possible  delay  he  might  carry  his  project  of 
departure  into  execution. 

When  he  had  in  some  measure  recovered  his  self- 
possession,  he  made  his  appearance  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  and  informed  Lady  Westhope  that  he  was  unex- 
pectedly obliged  to  return  to  London,  to  arrange  with 
his  father  some  matters  connected  with  his  exchange 
from  his  present  regiment,  which,  as  Lady  Westhope 
knew,  was  under  orders  for  India. 

This  was  strictly  true,  for  he  had  resolved  to  insist 
upon  his  father's  suspending  the  application  he  was  on 
the  point  of  making  for  this  exchange.  He  determined 
to  proceed  to  India  with  his  regiment.  The  unhealthi- 
ness  of  the  climate,  which  gave  his  relations  so  much 
uneasiness,  appeared  to  him,  in  his  present  frame  of 
mind,  a  positive  recommendation. 

The  company  expressed  all  due  disappointment  at 
his  sudden  departure — all  but  Lady  Blanche  ;  she  was 
not  present.  Lady  \Yesthope  suspected  something  must 
have  occurred,  and  when  she  bade  De  Molton  adieu, 
she  pressed  his  hand  with  a  mysterious  kindliness, 
which  she  meant  should  imply,  "  You  are  acting  like  a 
man  of  honour ;  I  see  you  suffer,  and  I  pity  you." 

She  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  by  Mr.  WroX' 
holme  telling  her  he  had  found  Captain  De  Molton  in 


124  BLANCHE. 

the  library  before  breakfast,  with  his  head  leaning 
against  the  marble  chimneypiece,  and  his  countenance 
so  pale  and  liagg-ard,  that  he  feared  for  a  moment  some- 
thing dreadful  must  have  happened.  Lady  Westhope 
recollected  Blanche's  hurrying  maimer  of  passing  her 
on  the  stairs,  and  she  pitied  all  parties. 

Lady  Falkingham's  indisposition  accounted  for  Lady 
Blanche's  absence  till  the  hour  of  luncheon,  when  she 
came  down-stairs  with  a  feeling  of  kindness  towards 
Lord  Glenriih,  awakened  by  the  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing injured  him.  She  scarcely  ventured  to  raise  her 
eyes  from  the  ground,  but  her  blushing  manner  passed 
for  the  modesty  of  a  young  girl  on  the  eve  of  marriage. 
Lord  Glenrith  pathetically  lamented  the  absence  of 
liis  friend,  and  Lady  Blanche  quivered  at  the  sound  of 
his  name,  and  then  reproached  herself  for  doing  so. 

Lord  Glenrith  showed  her  the  letters  he  had  received 
from  the  different  members  of  his  family.  Blanche 
could  not  but  feel  flattered  by  the  manner  in  which  she 
was  spoken  of;  could  not  but  think  the  better  of  the 
son  and  the  brother  who  was  loved  with  such  tender 
affection  ;  could  not  but  own  she  ought  to  be  happy 
with  the  prospect  of  possessing  such  a  father,  mother, 
brothers,  and  sisters-in-law.  Lord  Glenrith  in  his  own 
happiness  perceived  notijing  wanting  in  hermanner,and 
laughed  and  talked,  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  His  inward 
satisfaction  did  not  render  him  sentimental,  but  his 
buoyant  spirits  made  him  inclined  to  be  pleased  with 
everybody  and  every  thing.  He  even  forgot  the  dislike 
he  had  imbibed  for  Mr.  Stapleford  ;  and  when  his  ar- 
rival that  day  was  announced,  he  declared  him  to  be  a 
"devilish  sfood  fellow,  thoug-h  he  was  a  sarcastic  dog." 

His  flow  of  spirits  was  almost  oppressive  to  Lady 
Blanche,  yet  she  rejoiced  he  did  not  possess  the  sensi- 
tive tact  which  might  have  rendered  him  alive  to  every 
look  of  hers. 

At  dinner  Lord  Glenrith  was  telling  Lord  Falking- 
ham  he  had  a  famous  brood-mare  at  Wentnor  Castle, 
whose  colt  was  likely  to  win  the  St.  Leger. 


BLANCHE.  125 

"Is  your  colt  as  clever  as  your  old  horse  Perseus, 
Glenrith  ?"   asked  Mr.  Stapleford. 

"  Ah  !  Perseus  !  by  Jove  that  is  a  horse  !  Never  was 
a  thorough-bred  one  so  good  for  weight — and  as  active 
as  a  cat — such  action  !  and  such  pasterns  !  None  of 
your  short  pasterns  the  grooms  are  so  fond  of,  but  long 
enough  to  be  elastic.     He  is  a  true  whalebone." 

"  1  am  not  sure,  after  all,  I  do  not  like  Quirk  still 
better,"  Stapleford  dropped  out  quietly,  while  a  sly 
smile  lurked  in  the  corner  of  his  lip. 

"Quirk  is  a  singularly  good  horse!  He  has  such 
bone,  and  such  a  constitution  !" 

"And  that  gray  pony,  Glenrith — you  will  never  part 
with  that  pony  ?" 

"  Part  with  Yung-frau  ?  not  for  three  hundred 
guineas  !" 

"  You  are  a  fortunate  man  in  your  stud,  Glenrith  !" 
remarked  Stapleford  with  a  quiet,  composed,  and  serious 
air,  which  to  the  unsuspicious  Lord  Glenrith  was  per- 
fectly satisfactory,  while  the  rest  of  the  party,  especially 
poor  Blanche,  were  painfully  aware  he  was  playing  on 
the  one  weak  point  of  the  amiable  young  Benedict. 

Nothing  lowers  a  man  in  the  eyes  a  woman  so  much 
as  being  made  a  butt,  no  matter  whether  the  quizzer  be 
a  person  for  whose  opinion  she  entertains  any  respect 
or  not.  It  was  unlucky  that,  at  the  moment  the  heros 
de  roman  lover  had  departed  in  magnanimous  despair, 
the  successful  one  should  lay  himself  open  to  the  quiz- 
zing of  a  dandy.  Lady  Blanche  felt  miserable — more 
miserable  than  when  she  parted  from  De  Molton — 
more  miserable  than  when  she  heard  the  jingle  of  his 
hack  chaise,  as  it  drove  from  the  door — more  miserable 
than  when  her  mother's  statement  of  the  case  made  her 
awake  to  the  enormity  of  her  misconduct — more  mis- 
erable than  when  she  resolved  to  drive  her  lover's  image 
for  ever  from  her  mind.  Those  distresses  were  at 
least  elevated  ones — this  bordered  on  the  ridiculous. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  INIr.  Stapleford  found 
himself  near  Lady  Jilanche.  "  I  must  offer  you  my 
congratulations,  Lady  Blanche,  and  especially  upon  the 

L  2 


126  BLANCHE. 

good  looks  and  the  good  spirits  of  the  fortunate  Lord 
Glenrith.  His  beaming  and  ruddy  appearance  shows 
that  you  have  not  been  unnecessarily  cruel,  tormenting 
before  you  consented  to  make  him  the  happiest  of  men. 
It  must  give  a  person  of  your  kindly  feelings  great 
pleasure  to  behold  a  face  so  redolent  with  joyousness  !" 
Every  word  of  this  speech  was  disagreeable.  Poor 
Blanche  did  not  admire  a  "ruddy"  man — did  not  like 
an  unsentimental  lover  ;  and,  above  all,  she  did  not 
like  the  implication  that  she  had  been 

"  Won  unwooed,  or  slightly  wooed  at  best." 

Mr.  Stapleford  bore  not  the  slightest  ill-will  either  to 
Lady  Blanche  or  to  Lord  Glenrith.  He  enjoyed  saying 
the  most  disagreeable  thing  in  the  civilest  manner  pos- 
sible ;  partly  because  it  is  almost  the  only  exercise  of 
power  which  a  person  without  house,  or  lands,  or 
fortune,  can  indulge  in  ;  partly  because  he  liked  to  see 
what  people  really  felt,  and  he  thus  frequently  dis- 
covered the  true  state  of  their  minds  ;  partly  because 
he  happened  to  possess  the  species  of  tact  which  enabled 
him  to  do  it — and  everybody  derives  pleasure  from 
success  of  any  kind. 

The  next  day  Blanche  received  a  packet  from  Went- 
nor  Castle.  It  contained  some  beautiful  ornaments — 
offerings  from  different  members  of  her  future  family, 
each  accompanied  by  the  prettiest  note  imaginable. 
Congratulations  showered  in  from  every  quarter.  All 
the  numerous  friends  and  relations  of  both  sides  wrote 
letters  in  which  each  party  was  described  as  perfection, 
and  each  as  having  met  with  perfection.  It  is  astonish- 
ing that  matrimony  should  ever  fail  to  secure  lasting 
happiness,  when  (if  we  may  believe  the  written  testi- 
mony of  those  who  best  know  the  contracting  parties) 
none  but  paragons  ever  enter  into  the  holy  state.  But 
among  all  the  happy  unions  that  have  been  joyfully 
anticipated,  none  ever  gave  more  general  satisfaction 
than  the  present.  The  age,  situation,  rank — every 
thing  was  suitable.  Poor  Lady  Blanche  felt  herself 
every  moment  more  thoroughly  hampered,  entangled, 


BLANCHE.  127 

and  pledged  ;  and  every  moment  her  disinclination  to 
the  marriage  increased. 

It  was  an  odd  thing  !  but  Mr.  Stapleford's  quiet 
manner  of  quizzing  Lord  Glenrith,  and  his  impertur- 
bable good-humour  under  it — or  rather  his  perl'ect  un- 
consciousness of  what  was  happening,  hurt  his  cause 
even  more  than  her  preference  of  De  Molton.  She 
would  rather  have  seen  him  angry  and  resentful ;  to 
persons  with  la  Ule  exalUe^  the  smallest  shadow  of 
ridicule  irrecoverably  destroys  the  halo  of  romance 
they  would  fain  throw  around  the  object  of  their  devo- 
tion. Blanche  might  have  turned  from  her  hopeless 
and  youthful  dream  of  love,  to  admiration,  respect, 
obedience,  and  submission ;  but  when  her  h6ad,  her 
heart,  and  her  imagination,  were  possessed  with  the 
dignified  brow,  the  melancholy  eyes,  the  mellow  voice, 
the  lofty  air,  the  noble  grief  of  De  Molton,  to  see  the 
joyous,  the  "  ruddy"  Glenrith  perfectly  contented  under 
the  quizzing  of  a  Stapleford,  prevented  her  being  able 
to  work  herself  up  to  the  feelings  it  was  her  duty  to 
entertain  towards  him. 

Mr.  Wroxholme  one  day  remarked  to  Lady  West- 
hope  that  Lady  Blanche  appeared  to  be  extremely  out 
of  spirits,  and  that  he  almost  feared  her  disposition  and 
that  of  her  future  husband  were  not  exactly  suited. 
^  "  She  seems  to  take  no  pleasure  in  his  country  pur- 
suits— she  listens  with  an  abstracted  air  while  he  con- 
tinues to  pour  into  her  ear  details  which  he  might 
perceive  are  not  interesting  to  her ;  though  I  own  I 
sometimes  wonder  she  should  not  be  more  curious 
about  Wentnor  Castle,  which,  from  the  engravings, 
must  be  a  magnificent  and  interesting  place." 

Lady  Westhope  agreed  with  Mr.  Wroxholme,  and 
could  not  help  half  confiding  to  him,  that  she  feared 
Lady  Blanche  had  some  other  prepossession. 

"  Poor  girl  !"  resumed  Mr.  Wroxholme  ;  "  but  then 
it  is  a  thousand  pities  she  should  marry,  if  she  cannot 
love,  Lord  Glenrith." 

"  He  is  such  a  good  man  !"  answered  Lady  West- 
hope  ;  "  he  has  such  excellent  principles — he  is  so  sure 


128  BLANCHE. 

to  make  a  true  and  faithful  husband,  that  in  the  lon^- 
run  I  should  hope  no  woman,  who  had  herself  good 
principles,  could  fail  to  be  happy  with  him." 

Lady  Westhope  sighed,  and  Mr.  Wroxholme,  who 
had  by  this  time  heard  and  seen  somewhat  more  of  his 
host,  felt  that  poor  Lady  Westhope  spoke  as  one  who 
had  suffered  from  the  absence  of  these  qualities  in  her 
husband. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Ever  still  must  I  adore  thee  : 

Though  wide  seas  between  us  roll, 

Each  fond  thought  shall  hover  o'er  thee, 
And  thine  image  fill  my  soul. 

Morning  breaking  o'er  the  ocean 

Will  thine  opening  graces  wear. 
And  with  evening's  last  devotion 

I  will  breathe  thy  name  in  prayer. 

Unpublished  Poems. 

Upon  leaving  Cransley,  Captain  De  Molton  had  has- 
tened to  town.  He  there  found  his  father,  who,  having 
left  the  rest  of  the  family  at  Brighton,  had  also  re- 
paired to  London  for  the  purpose  of  eflecting  the  pro- 
posed exchange. 

Lord  Cumberworth  was  preparing  to  enter  a  hackney 
coach,  which  waited  to  carry  him  to  Brookes's,  where 
he  meant  to  dine  and  to  solace  himself  with  a  quiet 
game  at  tolerably  high  whist,  when  he  was  startled  by 
the  unexpected  appearance  of  his  son. 

"  Why,  Francis  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  you  were 
gone  to  Cransley  for  a  fortnight !  What  brings  you 
here  ?" 

"  I  wished  to  see  you,  father,  and  to  talk  to  you 


BLANCHE.  129 

seriously  concerning  my  prospects  in  life.  You  are 
come  up  about  my  exchange,  are  you  not  ?"    '. 

"  Yes — and  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  settle  it  all  com- 
fortably. Your  mother  has  been  in  one  of  her  nervous 
ways  at  the  bare  thoughts  of  your  going  to  India." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  go,  father." 

"  Why  !  which  way  does  the  wind  blow  now  ? 
Why  the  d — 1  did  you  not  tell  me  so  sooner  ?  They 
have  all  been  pestering  me  to  come  to  town,  and  to 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  save  you  from  this  banish- 
ment, as  you  all  called  it ;  and  now  I  have  taken  the 
trouble  of  coming,  you  change  your  mind  !  Upon  my 
word,  this  is  very  inconsiderate.  But,  after  all,  I  my- 
self do  not  like  your  going  into  such  an  unhealthy 
climate,  and  I  would  rather  keep  you  at  home  if  1  could. 
If  you  are  to  go  into  danger,  let  it  be  where  some 
honour  and  renown  are  to  be  obtained.  There  is  no 
glory  in  dying  of  a  liver  complaint,  as  yellow  as  a 
guinea." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  my  dear  father,  to  have  given  you 
so  much  unnecessary  trouble,  but  I  have  fully  made 
up  my  mind  to  sail  with  my  regiment." 

"  And  pray.  Master  Francis,  what  has  worked  this 
wondrous  revolution  in  your  mind?" 

"  Why,  fatlier,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  happiness  is  out 
of  the  question  for  me  ;  and  therefore  1  had  rather  do 
whatever  will  make  me  least  burdensome  to  my  family, 
and  also  take  me  out  of  the  way  for  a  time." 

"And  why  do  you  want  to  lie  perdue?  You  have 
not  been  running  in  debt,  have  you  ?" 

"  No,  father ;  1  am  too  well  aware  what  are  your 
circumstances." 

''Not  a  scrape?  eh,  my  boy!"  and  Lord  Cumber- 
worth,  whose  morals  were  not  puritanical,  smiled.  "  It 
can't  be  Lady  Westhope,  she  is  such  a  prude.  You 
have  not  been  playing  the  fool,  I  hope  ?"  continued  Lord 
Cumberworth,  putting  more  of  parental  gravity  into  his 
countenance. 

"  I  have  been  guilty  of  nothing  wrong  in  deed  or 
thought,"  replied  Dc  Molton  with  seriousness. 


130  BLANCHE. 

"  Egad !  but  there's  a  woman  in  question  though," 
repHed  Lord  Cumberworlh.  "  You  are  not  in  any 
danger  of  marrying?"  and  his  face  really  assumed  an 
expression  of  alarm. 

"  Not  exactly,  father ;  but  I  am  unfortunately  at- 
tached to  a  person  who  is  on  the  eve  of  marriage  with 
another." 

"  Thank  Heaven  that  is  all !"  exclaimed  Lord  Cumber- 
worth.  '•  Remember  one  thing,  Frank — a  man  is  never 
thoroughly  undone  till  he  is  married." 

De  Molton  remained  silent.  His  father's  tone  of  feel- 
ing was  so  little  in  unison  with  his  own,  that  he  wished 
to  say  no  more  upon  the  subject  than  was  absolutely 
necessary. 

"  Does  the  girl  like  you,  my  boy  ?"  added  Lord  Cum- 
berworth. 

De  Molton  was  somewhat  perplexed  how  to  answer, 
but  he  said,  "  I  told  you,  father,  she  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried to  another  man." 

"  Ah  !  but  women  have  married  rich  men  when  they 
have  been  in  love  with  poor  men,  befoz'e  now.  And  you 
are  a  d — sh  handsome  fellow,  and  more  like  me  than  any 
of  my  children.  Well,  don't  look  so  sheepish,  like  a 
bashful  maiden,  yourself.   Is  the  gii-1  in  love  with  you?" 

"I  conclude  not,"  resolutely  answered  De  Molton. 

*'  Have  you  told  her  you  are  in  love  with  her  ?" 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  have." 

"  And  she  was  not  angry,  eh  ?  Come,  I  suppose  your 
nice  sense  of  honour  will  allow  you  to  say  whether  she 
is  very  much  in  love  with  her  future  husband  or  not  ?" 

"I  should  say  she  esteemed  him  highly,  but  was  not 
precisely  in  love  with  him,"  was  De  Molton's  guarded 
reply. 

"  "Wheugh — gh — gh  !"  with  an  elevation  of  the  eye- 
brows, and  a  sound  that  ended  something  like  a  whistle, 
was  the  response  produced  by  this  last  communication 
of  his  son's.  "  You  had  better  go,  my  boy.  I  see  how 
it  is :  if  you  stay,  we  shall  have  the  marriage,  broken  off 
and  the  d — 1  to  pay.  Ah  !  well,  I  am  sorry  to  part  with 
you,  but  you  had  better  go — we  will  do  no  more  about  the 


BLANCHE.  131 

exchange.  But  I  am  as  hungrj'  as  a  hound — I  have  eaten 
nothing  since  I  feft  Brighton.  There  is  no  dinner  in  the 
house — nothing  in  it  but  the  old  housemaid  :  we  can't 
roast  her — she  would  be  tougher  than  Pedriilo.  Let's 
be  off'  to  Brookes's.  By-the-by,  you  don't  belong  to 
Brookes's :  I  remember  you  said  it  was  too  expensive, 
when  George  wanted  to  get  yqu  put  up.  Well,  you 
can  eat  your  dinner  at  your  Junior  United  Service  Club ; 
and  we  will  meet  here,  at  home,  at  ten  o'clock,  and 
talk  matters  over  quietly." 

Lord  Cumberworth  got  into  his  hackney  coach,  and 
De  Molton  walked  off  to  his  club,  to  snatch  a  hasty 
morsel,  and  return  to  South  Aud ley-street,  there  to  rumi" 
nate  sadly  upon  his  future  fate  until  his  father  should  join 
him.  There  was  much  of  bitterness  in  his  reflections. 
He  could  not  help  repining  at  the  unequal  distribution  of 
fortune,  and  thinking  it  hard  that  the  happiness  of  two 
beings  should  be  wrecked  for  lack  of  that  contemptible 
thing,  money.  He  almost  doubted  whether  he  jvas  act- 
ing rightly  by  Lady  Blanche  in  abandoning  her  when  she 
had  all  but  acknowledged  her  love  for  him.  And  yet, 
what  could  he  do?  His  worldly  pelf  consisted  but  of 
his  pay,  and  the  very  moderate  allowance  which  his 
father  was  able  to  make  him.  He  had  nothing  to  look 
to.  His  father's  property  was  entailed  upon  the  eldest 
son — his  circumstances  were  embarrassed — he  had  been 
obliged  to  let  Cumberworth  Hall,  and  lived  principally 
in  London,  making  an  occasional  excursion  to  some  wa- 
tering-place: there  was  no  chance  of  saving  his  money, 
and  there  were  twelve  of  them  to  divide  the  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds  settled  on  younger  children.  Lady  Blanche 
certainly  had  no  dislike  to  Glenrith,  or  she  would  never 
have  accepted  him  :  and  who  could  know  Glenrith,  and 
not  learn  to  value  and  to  love  his  kind  feelings  and 
singleness  of  heart  ?  the  more  he  reflected,  the  more 
strengthened  he  was  in  his  purpose.  When  he  was  far' 
away,  she  woiykkas^w^(lly4brgetihe  slight  prepossession 
she  had  cnlert^^Pl  foniiinr,  and  she  would  soon  give  her 
whole  hea"!flMi  Glenrith.     When  he  had  brought  his  rea- 


132  BLANCHB. 

sonings  to  this  most  desirable  point,  he  found  it  infinitely 
more  painful  than  any  other  view  of  the  subject. 

His  father  returned  about  ten  o'clock,  and  after 
arranging  to  write  immediately  to  the  person  with  whom 
they  had  been  in  treaty  for  the  exchange,  and  to  lose 
no  time  in  procuring  the  proper  stock  of  articles  neces- 
sary for  the  voyage,  as  there  was  a  possibility  of  the 
regiment  sailing  within  a  fortnight,  they  agreed  to  leave 
London  the  following  afternoon,  and  to  join  the  rest  of 
the  family  at  Brighton. 

"  Well,  cheer  up,  my  boy  !"  said  Lord  Cumberworth, 
as  he  bade  his  son  good-night.  "  There  is  no  use  in  fret- 
ting— there  are  more  pretty  girls  than  one  in  the  world, 
and  you  are  not  the  first  sentimental  young  man  who  has 
been  crossed  in  love.  II  en  faut  passer  par  la.  We 
have  all  been  crossed  in  love  in  our  time.  I,  myself,  was 
very  much  smitten  with  another  woman  when  1  married 
your  mother ;  but  I  saw  that  my  marrying  Helen  was 
out  of  the  question,  and  so  I  did  what  they  all  wished 
me  to  do,  and  it  answered  just  as  well.  Your  mother  is 
a  very  good  woman,  Frank,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  her. 
So  cheer  up,  my  boy — never  be  down-hearted  !  You 
will  forget  your  dulcinea  long  before  you  cross  the  line." 
He  was  closing  the  door  when  he  turned  back  again  to 
say, — "  Frank,  you  look  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  were 
younger  brother  to  the  knight  of  La  Mancha — el  cavaliei'e 
de  la  triste  jigiira, — with  your  pale  cheeks  and  your  high 
forehead.  1  would  not  be  a  skin  of  wine  or  a  windmill 
in  your  way  for  something  !" 

The  good-humoured  but  unsentimental  father  chuckled 
at  his  own  joke,  and  went  off  to  bed  so  relieved  by  the 
thought  that  his  son  would  be  secured  from  the  impend* 
ing  danger,  that  it  quite  reconciled  him  to  his  departure. 

When  they  arrived  at  Brighton,  late  the  following 
evening,  poor  Lady  Cumberworth  was  in  despair  at  the 
prospect  of  her  pet,  her  darling,  the  most  affectionate,  the 
most  considerate,  the  most  dutiful  of  all  her  children, 
running  all  the  risks  consequent  upo'h  a  banishment  to 
India;  "not  only,"  as  she  said,  "braving  perils  by  sea 
and  perils  by  land,  but  those  of  climate  and  disease." 


BLANCHfi.  133 

"  There  are  worse  perils  in  England,  Mary,"  replied 
her  husband,  with  a  knowing  wink.  "Perils  by  eyes 
are  the  most  dangerous  for  handsome  young  fellows  ! 
Depend  upon  it,  he  is  far  safer  in  the  other  hemisphere  ; 
for  peril  by  marriage  is  the  worst  of  all — that  is  to  say, 
when  a  man  has  nothing,  and  never  can  have  any 
thing  as  long  as  he  lives." 

De  Molton  shrunk  at  hearing  his  attachment  alluded 
to  among  all  the  family  circle ;  though  to  his  dear 
gentle  mother  he  could  have  opened  his  whole  heart, 
and  to  most  of  his  sisters  individually  also.  The  eldest 
was  grown  a  little  starch,  and  the  youngest  was  rather 
too  young  and  giddy;  but  the  four  middle  ones  had 
plenty  of  romance  in  them,  and  would  have  listened  to 
his  tale  with  tears  in  their  eyes.  To  any  one  of  them  in 
a  tete-a-tete  he  might  have  spoken  his  feelings  ;  but  to 
have  twelve  curious,  wondering,  though  kind  eyes,  turn 
upon  him  at  once,  was  peculiarly  unpleasant  to  a  sen- 
sitive and  reserved  man. 

Lady  Cumberworth  saw  his  distress,  and  hastened 
to  say,  "  We  were  just  going  to  bed  when  you  arrived. 
I  shall  carry  Frank  off  to  have  a  quiet  gossip  with  him  ; 
so  good-night,  girls  !" 

De  Molton  followed  his  mother,  and  in  her  found  a 
sympathizing  listener — one  who  entered  into  all  his 
ditliculties,  and  who  was  ready  to  love  poor  Blanche 
for  appreciating  her  own  dear  Frank  as  he  deserved. 
But  she  saw  that,  deeply  as  his  affections  were  en- 
gaged, their  imion  was  impracticable ;  and  she  was 
obliged,  though  most  reluctantly,  to  confess  that  a  tem- 
porary absence,  and  entire  change  of  scene,  were  likely 
to  spare  his  feelings  and  principles  many  a  trial. 

Lady  Cumberworth  entreated  her  husband  not  to 
annoy  poor  Frank  by  any  allusion  to  his  unfortunate 
attachment. 

"  Lord  bless  the  fellow !"  exclaimed  Lord  Cumber- 
worth,  "  I  never  meant  to  annoy  him  !  I  know  he  is 
d — shly  in  love,  and  that  is  ail  i  said  !  And  I  only 
said,  he  could  not  marry,  and  that  he  knows  well 
enough  !" 

VOL.  II. M 


131  BLANCHZ:. 

"  He  is  unhappy,  and  we  must  refrain  from  remarks 
that  wound  his  delicacy,  just  now." 

"  Delicacy — fiddlestick  !  You  always  did  spoil  that 
boy — and  you  will  make  him  as  full  of  feelings,  and 
nerves,  and  refinement,  as  the  most  fanciful  woman  of 
you  all  1" 

The  young  ladies  also  met  in  a  nocturnal  synod. 
"  What  is  this  love  of  Frank's  ?"  exclaimed  Mary. 

"  How  papa  made  him  blush  !"  said  Laura. 

"  And  is  he  really  going  to  India?"  asked  Charlotte. 

"  Who  is  the  girl?"  inquired  Emily. 

"  And  why  could  not  mamma  talk  to  him  before  us,  I 
wonder !"  added  Katherine,  the  youngest,  who  was 
rather  pert. 

"  When  you  are  a  little  older,  you  will  know  that  peo- 
ple do  not  like  to  discuss  les  affaires  du  cceiir  en  pleine 
salle,'"  answered  Jane  the  eldest ;  and  with  a  dignified 
air  she  retired  to  bed. 

"I  suppose  Jane  wishes  to  persuade  us  she  has  some 
love  affairs  of  her  own,  though  we  know  nothing  about 
them,"  continued  the  merry  Katherine  ;  "  she  has  pre- 
served a  most  dignified  mystery  upon  the  subject,  ever 
since  I  have  been  grown  up." 

After  a  few  more  questions  which  could  elicit  no 
answers,  seeing  that  all  parties  were  equally  in  the  dark^ 
the  sisters  separated  for  the  night,  and  all  found  the 
repose  they  sought  except  Lady  Cumberworth,  who 
actually  felt  the  approaching  separation  from  her  son, 
and  still  more  the  pain  that  darling  son  was  doomed  to 
endure. 

Lady  Cumberworth  was  not  one  who  considered  the 
suflferings  of  lovers  as  matter  for  sport  •, — she  had  been 
fervently  attached  in  her  early  youth,  and  the  object  of 
that  attachment  had  been  snatched  from  her  by  death. 
On  her  side,  as  well  as  on  her  husband's,  their  marriage 
had  been  one  of  reason  and  expediency.  But  she  had 
made  him  an  excellent  wife,  had  borne  him  a  large 
family,  and  they  had  always  been  a  happy  and  affection- 
ate couple — happier,  perhaps,  than  if  one  of  the  parties, 
and  only  one,  had  felt  more  warmly. 


BLANCHE.  135 

In  a  fortnifrht  from  the  time  De  Molton  joined  his 
family  at  Brighton,  he  tore  himself  from  the  arms  of  his 
sisters,  and,  lastly,  from  the  long,  speechless,  close  em- 
brace of  his  mother,  to  whose  more  sad  and  sacred  af- 
fection all  instinctively  yielded  the  parting  caress. 

He  sailed  with  his  regiment,  and  we  will  leave  him 
for  a  while,  losing  the  sense  of  all  his  romantic  and  high- 
wrought  sensibilities  in  the  absorbing  sufferings  oftea 
endured  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 


CHAPTER  VL 

No  te  fi.ltera  otra  Dama 
Hermosa  y  de  galan  talle, 
Que  te  quiera,  y  tu  la  quieras 
Porque  lo  mereces  Zayde. 

Spanish  Romance 

Tni3  visit  of  the  Falkinghams  at  Cransley  had  now 
lasted  more  than  ten  days.  Blanche  ardently  wished  to 
be  at  home  again.  She  felt  wretched,  hypocritical,  and 
guilty.  She  found  herself  so  uncomfortable  where  site 
was,  that  she-  imagined  any  change  must  be  for  the  bet- 
ter. When  they  left  Cransley,  Lord  Glenrith  was  to 
pay  his  parents  a  visit  of  a  few  days,  and  then  to  join 
them  at  Temple  Loseley ;  after  which  they  were  all  to 
proceed  to  London  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  the 
wedding  paraphernalia. 

Lady  Blanche''s  depression  became  so  evident,  that 
even  Lord  Glenrith,  although  not  an  acute  observer, 
could  not  avoid  perceiving  it.  He  was  exceedingly  flat- 
tered, and  attributed  it  all  to  his  approaching  absence. 
He  kindly  consoled  her.  "  I  shall  soon  be  with  you 
again,  Blanche.  I  love  my  father  and  mother  dearly;  but 
just  now  I  do  not  think  even  they  can  succeed  in  keep- 
ing me  above  tliree  days  away  from  you.  I  hate  the 
ihought  of  leaving  you,  but  it  will  be  such  a  pleasure  to 


136  BLANCHE. 

meet  again! — will  it  not,  dearest  Blanche ?  I  think  it 
will  almost  nnake  up  for  the  pain  of  parting  ;  and  then,  I 
suppose,  I  need  not  leave  you  any  more.  So  we  have 
nothing  but  joy  before  us."  And  he  wondered  his  be- 
trothed did  not  appear  to  be  more  consoled  by  this  pros- 
pect. 

He  has  handed  them  all  into  their  travelling  barouche, 
and  he  hasthrownhimself  intohisbritska,andtheyhave  left 
Cransley  in  opposite  directions.  All  the  rest  of  the  party 
had  previously  dispersed — all  but  Mr.  Wroxholme,  and 
he  was  going  to  town  the  next  day.  As  he  and  Lady 
Westhope  stood  upon  the  steps  watching  the  receding 
vehicles,  they  could  not  help  communicating  to  each 
other  their  fears  concerning  the  approaching  marriage. 
Lady  Westhope  was  exceedingly  out  of  spirits  at  poor 
Blanche's  prospects,  and  Mr.  Wroxholme  entered  into 
her  feelings,  with  all  the  delicacy  of  a  person  with  good 
heart  and  good  taste. 

As  their  barouche  rolled  smoothly  along,  Lord  and 
Lady  Falkingham  fell  into  deep  and  earnest  conversa- 
tion :  Blanche  sat  in  the  back  seat,  absorbed  in  her  own 
meditations.  The  road  lay  through  an  open,  hilly,  and 
heathy  country,  watered  by  small  rivulets,  on  the  imme- 
diate banks  of  which  were  sometimes  seen  a  solitary  cot- 
tage, and  close  around,  a  small  patch  of  cultivated  ground. 
It  was  a  mild  watery  daVi  with  little  positive  rain,  but 
one  in  which  the  shifting  lights  and  gleams  of  pale  sun- 
shine give  a  purple  hue  to  the  heathy  hill-side,  and  a 
bright  yellow  to  the  green  meadow,  or  the  mossy  swamp. 
Her  eyes  mechanically  watched  the  varying  hues,  and 
at  length  fixed  themselves  upon  a  lonely  turf-roofed  Imt 
in  the  valley  below.  "  How  peaceful  must  be  existence 
in  such  a  hut !"  she  thought  within  herself:  "  no  worldly 
considerations,  no  aspirations  after  rank  and  situation, 
can  there  interfere  with  the  affections.  A  strong  arm 
and  a  willing  mind  are  all  that  are  required  to  authorize 
the  peasant  lover  to  seek  the  hand  of  his  peasant  mistress. 
Personal,  individual  qualities  alone  are  considered, — not 
the  adventitious  recommendations  of  fortune.  How  much 
happier  must  be  that  rank  of  life,  where  love,  and  love 


BLANCHE>  13? 

alone,  leads  to  a  union  which  is  to  endure  as  long  as 
life  itself!  Oh !  if  I  could,  in  honour  and  in  respecta'- 
bility,  become  the  wife  of  De  Molton,  how  willingly 
would  I  resign  every  luxury  to  which  I  have  been  born, 
and  live  in  that  very  cottage,  unnoticed  and  unknown  ! 
I  think  I  could  gladly  perform  even  the  household 
drudgery:  I  could  feed  the  chickens  and  sweep  the 
brick  floor,  and  pile  up  the  blazing  fagots,  and  pre*- 
pare  my  husband's  evening  meal — if  that  husband  were 
De  Molton  I" 

She  gazed  upon  the  cottage  as  long  as  it  remained  in 
sight,  and  almost  felt  as  if  she  left  a  place  that  was  en* 
deared  to  her  by  habit,  when  a  turn  in  the  road  concealed 
it  from  her  view. 

It  may  be  much  questioned  whether  Lady  Blanche's 
view  of  the  various  conditions  of  life  were  a  correct  one, 
and  whether  there  may  not  exist  as  much,  or  more,  dis- 
interested love  in  the  higher  orders  than  in  the  lower. 

But  her  thoughts  continued,  "  And  feeling  thus,  shall  I 
promise  entire,  undivided,  eternal  love  to  another  man  ? 
Has  not  my  life  been  an  enacted  lie  for  the  last  fortnight  ? 
Can  I  make  up  my  mind  to  continue  for  years  and  years 
this  unceasing  duplicity?  I  thought  De  Molton's  image 
would  fade  from  my  mind — I  thought  I  should  each  day 
become  more  attached  to  Lord  Glenrith.  I  hear  of  so 
many  happy  wives  who  did  not  marry  for  love  I  But  is 
this  the  case?  No!  his  image  rises  to  my  mind's  eye 
more  frequently  than  ever,  and  I  find  my  soul  recoil 
more,  every  day,  from  poor  dear  Lord  Glenrith's  ten- 
derness. I  shall  behave  ill  to  him  in  breaking  off  the 
marriage,  and  I  shall  be  called  a  jilt ;  but  shall  I  not  be- 
have more  ill  to  him  by  marrying  him,  when  I  feel  as  I 
now  do  ?  I  will  tell  him  the  whole  truth  myself!  It  is 
a  horrid  alternative, but  I  cannot — I  cannot  marry  him!" 

The  day  after  their  arrival  at  home  Lady  Blanche 
communicated  to  her  mother  the  resolution  she  had 
formed.  Lady  Falkingham  was  thunderstruck.  Blanche 
had  continued  for  the  last  week  to  admit  of  Lord  Glen- 
rith's attentions,  and  had  never  again  alluded  to  her  at- 
tachment, so  that  Lady  Falkingham  had  convinced  her- 

M  2 


138  BLANCHE. 

self  the  childish  affair  had  passed  from  her  mind.  She 
was  inexpressibly  grieved  at  the  information ;  but  she 
was  a  woman  of  principle,  and  could  not  insist  upon  her 
daughter's  marrying,  while  a  passion,  which  would  be- 
come criminal,  retained  full  possession  of  her  breast. 
Lord  Falkingham,  as  might  be  expected,  was  very  in- 
dignant— perhaps  moi-e  so  at  first  than  his  wife  had  been ; 
but  when  the  first  ebullition  of  anger  was  past,  he  was 
sooner  able  to  resume  his  usual  bearing  towards  his 
daughter.  The  days  are  passed,  when  any  measures, 
beyond  argument  and  persuasion,  can  be  put  into  prac- 
tice to  force  an  unwilling  bride  to  the  altar  ;  and  argu- 
ment and  pei'suasion  were  of  no  avail  with  one  who  un- 
equivocally declared  that  she  had  tried  in  vain  to  subdue 
her  love  for  De  Molton — that  her  efforts  to  return  Lord 
Glenrith's  affection  were  totally  unavailing,  and  that,  if 
she  found  herself  his  wife,  she  should  be  utterlyj^mis- 
erable. 

Two  days  had  elapsed  from  Lord  Glenrith's  departure 
for  his  father's.  On  the  third  he  was  expected  at  Temple 
Loseley.  There  was  no  cross  post ;  there  was  no  time 
to  write ;  and,  indeed,  Blanche  thought  she  had  rather 
tell  him  the  whole  truth  herself,  as  she  could  better  ex- 
onerate his  friend  from  any  blame,  by  word  of  mouth, 
than  by  letter. 

Never  did  three  persons  await  the  coming  of  a  gay 
and  gallant  bridegroom  with  more  uncomfortable  feel- 
ings. At  the  appointed  moment  on  the  third  day  he  ar- 
rived, beaming  with  honest  joy.  After  the  first  greeting, 
he  slipped  upon  the  finger  of  his  love,  with  an  attempt 
at  sentimental  mystery,  a  ring  containing  his  own  hair. 
He  also  brought  from  his  mother  the  family  diamonds, 
which,  she  said,  would  infinitely  better  grace  the  bloom- 
ing young  bride  than  the  sober  matron.  Lord  Glenrith 
exhibited  them  with  some  pride  and  great  delight; — 
pride  at  the  family  glories — delight  at  offering  them  to 
Blanche. 

Never  were  diamonds  received  so  awkwardly  and 
with  so  little  apparent  gratitude. 


BLANCHE. 


139 


''  Why,  Blanche  !  you  do  not  seem  to  care  about  the 
diamonds,"  he  said  in  rather  a  mortified  tone. 

"  Indeed  I  am  very,  very  grateful  to  Lady  Wentnor 
for  her  constant,  her  unmerited  kindness  to  me- — so  much 
more  than  I  deserve  !" 

"  You  are  very  modest,  my  dear  Blanche  !  Well !  I 
hope  it  is  that  you  are  so  glad  to  see  me,  you  cannot 
think  about  the  diamonds ;  and  if  that  is  the  case  I  v^'ill 
forgive  you,  and  so  will  my  mother  too,  I  dare  say.  I 
have  been  told  many  women  love  their  diamonds  better 
than  their  husbands  :  that  will  not  be  your  case,  I  trust, 
or  you  will  care  very  little  for  me."  He  hurried  off  to 
dress  for  dinner,  a  little  put  out  by  the  reception  he  had 
met  with. 

The  dinner  was  most  distressing.  Lord  Glenrith  be- 
gan, in  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  to  tell  them  every 
thing  he  had  done,  every  arrangement  that  had  been 
made,  and  how  Lord  and  Lady  Wentnor  meant  to  visit 
Leamington  for  a  few  weeks,  and  to  relinquish  Wentnor 
Castle  to  them  for  their  honeymoon ;  but  he  found  his 
audience  so  cold,  that  he  in  his  turn  became  chilled  and 
daunted. 

As  they  left  the  dining-room.  Lady  Blanche  sum- 
moned all  her  courage,  and  said,  "  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you  presently  in  the  breakfast-room." 

The  die  was  cast !  She  must  now  tell  him  all.  She 
seized  her  mother's  arm  as  they  crossed  the  hall.  "  Oh, 
mamma  !  what  a  task  I  have  to  perform  !  How  could  I 
ever  accept  poor  dear  Lord  Glenrith,  and  plunge  myself 
into  this  dreadful  difficulty  !" 

"  My  dear,  say  rather,  '  How  could  I  let  myself  fall 
in  love  with  a  man  whom  it  is  utterly  impossible  I  should 
marry  !' — that  would  be  more  to  the  purpose.  But  it  is 
too  late  now :  there  is  no  use  in  retrospection !" 

It  was  not  many  minutes  before  they  heard  the  dining- 
room  doors  open.  Lady  Blanche  rushed  into  the  break- 
fast-room adjoining,  and  in  two  seconds  Lord  Glenrith 
followed  her.  He  saw  something  unusual  had  occurred, 
and  he  felt  uneasy,  but  his  mind  never  glanced  towards 
what  awaited  him.     "  Well,  Blanche,  what  in  the  world 


140  J3LANCHE* 

have  you  to  say  to  me  ?"  and  he  seated  himself  on  the 
sofa  by  her  side.  "  How  glad  I  am  we  are  once  more 
quietly  here,  and  no  longer  surrounded  by  simpering, 
quizzing  acquaintances !"  And  there  seemed  a  consid- 
erablej  danger  of  his  attempting  to  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist.  If  he  did  meditate  such  a  thing,  his  inten- 
tions were  by  no  means  carried  into  effect,  for  she  started 
up  to  take  her  reticule  off  the  table,  and  reseated  her- 
self at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace  in  an  armchair. 

"  Lord  Glenrith,"  she  said,  "  I  have  something  upon 
my  mind  which  has  made  me  very  miserable  of  late." 

"  Miserable  ! — you  miserable,  and  I  not  know  it  I 
What  can  I  do,  dearest  Blanche  ?  You  know  I  would 
go  through  fire  and  water  to  serve  you." 

"  Do  not  speak  so  kindly  to  me, — you  make  what  I 
have  to  say  more  painful,  more  difficult.  I  deserve 
nothing  from  you  but  hatred  and  contempt." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  Are  you  in  your  right 
senses  ?" 

"  Scarcely,  I  believe ;  for  any  other  woman  would 
think  herself  the  happiest  and  most  fortunate  of  crea- 
tures in  marrying  you  ;  and  if  I  was  to  do  so,  I  should 
be  both  wicked  and  wretched  !" 

"  Not  marry  me,  Blanche  ! — you  are  dreaming.  What 
can  all  this  mean  ?  It  is  very  unpleasant,  though  you 
cannot  mean  what  you  are  now  saying." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  mean  what  I  say,  and  you  cannot  know 
how  much  I  have  suffered  in  coming  to  this  conclusion." 

"  This  is  strange — this  is  unaccountable  !"  and  he 
passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  make  sure  he 
was  awake.  "  Have  I  done  any  thing  to  change  your 
opinion  of  me  ?  lam  not  aware  of  having  been  want- 
ing in  any  way — and  I  am  sure,  Blanche,  I  have  loved 
you  truly  and  sincerely."  A  tear  glistened  in  his  eye. 
"  Tell  me  what  1  have  done,  and  I  will  correct  my  fault. 
You  are  only  saying  this  to  try  me  ;  and  if  so,  let  me 
tell  you  that  it  is  a  very  foolish  jest,  and  one  entirely  un- 
worthy of  you."  The  colour  mounted  into  his  face,  and 
he  looked  for  a  moment  extremely  angry. 

"  No  1  Lord  Glenrith,  this  is  no  jest !     I  am  in  sober, 


BLANCHE.  141 

serious,  most  sad  earnest.  Your  conduct  towards  me 
has  been  from  the  beginning  ten  thousand  times  better 
than  I  deserved  ;  but  1  should  be  treating  you  shamefully 
if  I  were  to  marry  you  when  my  heart — is  another's." 

"  Your  heart  another's  J  Did  you  say  so  ?  Your  heart 
another's  !     Then,  why  on  earth  did  you  accept  me  ?" 

"  Well  may  you  ask  that  question,  and  well  may  I  blush 
to  answer  it !  1  thought  my  affection  was  unrequited,  and 
1  esteemed  you.  My  parents  thought  more  highly  of 
you  than  of  any  one.  I  believed  I  should  soon  prefer 
you  to  the  one  person  I  had  loved,  as  much  as  I  already 
did  to  all  common  acquaintances ;  and  it  was  not  till  I 
found  my  affection  was  not  unrequited,  that  I  became 
aware  of  the  depth  and  strength  of  my  own  attachment. 
I  have  been  miserable  ever  since,  and  all  I  can  now  do 
is  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth." 

Lord  Glenrith  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
"  This  is  a  cruel  blow  !"  he  said  at  last ;  "  I  have  not  de- 
served this  from  you,  Lady  Blanche.  And  who  is  the 
favoured  object  1  By  heaven,  it  must  be  De  Molton  !  I 
remember  his  countenance  at  dinner  the  day  he  was  at 
Cransley — how  pale  he  looked,  and  how  continually  he 
strove  to  catch  a  view  of  you  by  the  epergne  ;  and 
every  time  he  met  my  eye,  he  looked  in  another  direc- 
tion !  I  am  born  to  be  made  a  fool  of — to  be  deceived 
by  the  friend  I  have  loved  from  childhood,  and  by  the 
woman  to  whom  I  would  fain  have  devoted  all  the  rest 
of  my  existence  !"     He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Blame  me,  Lord  Glenrith,  for  1  deserve  your  re- 
proaches ;  but  your  friend  has  never  deceived  you  :  Cap- 
tain De  Molton  has  always  considered  you  more  than 
himself." 

"  Then  it  is  Dc  Molton  !  These  are  the  actions  dic- 
tated by  his  high-flown  notions  of  honour !  A  plain, 
rnatter-of fact  man  would  never  have  proved  such  a 
shabby  fellow." 

"  Captain  De  Molton  shabby!"  The  word  "  shabby" 
sounded  strangely  on  her  ear  when  coupled  with  the 
name  of  De  Molton.  She  would  have  answered  Lord 
Glenrith  angrily,  if  the  consciousness  how  deeply  she 


142  BLANCHE. 

had  wronged  him  had  not  checked  her  speech ;  but  she 
could  rather  have  forgiven  his  calling  her  lover  a  black- 
hearted villain,  than  a  "  shabby  fellow."  "  Lord  Glen- 
rith,"  she  repeated,  "  you  wrong  your  friend.  He  care- 
fully concealed  from  me  his  feelings  till — till — " 

"  Till  you  had  promised  to  marry  me  !" 

"  Till  he  fancied  the  avowal  of  them  could  not  endan- 
ger your  happiness,  or,  as  he  imagined,  mine.  When  he 
took  leave  of  me  at  Cransley,  he  showed  some  emotion, 
which  caused  him  to  reproach  himself  for  betraying  feel- 
ings he  had  long  concealed.  Then  first  I  learned  he  did 
experience  any  feelings  which  he  wished  to  conceal,  and 
this  discovery  produced  a  revolution  in  my  mind  which 
appalled  me.  I  strove  to  blind  myself  as  to  the  nature 
of  my  sentiments — I  strove  to  conquer  them — in  vain ; 
and  now,  what  can  I  do  but  throw  myself  on  your  mercy, 
and  implore  you  to  forgive  me  for  having  ever  accepted 
the  devotion  of  an  honest  man,  whose  affection  I  could 
not  requite  as  it  deserved  !"  She  held  out  her  hand  to 
him. 

"  Oh,  Blanche  I  you  break  my  heart !"  And  he  kissed 
the  hand  which  she  did  not  withdraw  :  she  felt  a  tear  fall 
upon  it.  Her  very  soul  seemed  to  melt  towards  the  kind 
being  to  whom  she  was  giving  so  much  pain. 

"  Believe  me,  Lord  Glenrith,  when  1  tell  you,  that  every 
sentiment  of  esteem,  respect,  and  gratitude — every  senti- 
ment which  my  reason  can  command,  is  yours  ;  and  that 
I  esteem  and  respect  you  too  highly  to  wish  you  married 
to  a  wife  who  cannot  give  you  her  whole  heart.  In  a 
short  time  you  will  forget  a  person  who  has  caused  you 
nothing  but  disappointment  and  annoyance ;  and  you  will 
find  many,  many  girls  who  will  esteem  themselves  fortu- 
nate in  being  allowed  to  devote  to  you  their  first  aflfec- 
tions.  You  will  soon  rejoice  in  the  liberty  I  now  restore 
to  you.  While  1  have  nothing  in  store  for  me  but  con- 
tempt and  ridicule,  you  will  find,  with  some  one  far  supe- 
rior to  me  in  all  respects,  happiness,  which  I  must  not 
hope  for." 

^•JNever,  Blanche,  never!     I   shall  never  marry!" 


BLANCHE.  143 

And  Lord  Glenrith  conscientiously  believed  what  he 
uttered. 

"  Before  we  part,  tell  me  that  you  forgive  Captain  De 
Molton,  and  that  you  believe  me  when  I  assure  you,  that 
he  never  intended  to  interfere  with  your  interests." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  do  believe  you,  and  I  will  try  to 
forgive  De  Molton." 

Every  thing  was  said.  Blanche  felt  that  their  return 
to  the  drawing-room  was  very  awkward,  but  there  was 
no  other  course  to  pursue.  She  led  the  way  to  the  door 
— there  was  nothing  left  for  Lord  Glenrith  but  to  follow 
after.  He  felt  that  something  of  ridicule  always  attached 
itself  to  his  position  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  felt  injured, 
and  he  tried  to  put  a  certain  resolute  and  dignified  air 
into  his  walk.  He  looked  flushed  and  heated ;  his  eye 
glanced  suspiciously  and  uneasily  from  side  to  side ;  but 
he  attempted  to  assume  an  unembarrassed  deportment. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

The  smile  that  on  thy  lips  erewhilc 

So  kindly  wont  to  play — 
That  could  each  idle  care  beguile 

Of  Love's  first  golden  day — 
Now,  when  lone  Fancy  rules  the  hour, 

At  evening's  lingering  close, 
Comes  o'er  my  soul  with  mightier  power, 

To  sooth  my  real  woes. 

Unpubliihed  Poems. 

Loud  and  Lady  Falkingham  were  seated,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  fireplace,  awaiting  the  result  of  the  con- 
ference which  was  taking  place  in  the  apartment  within. 
They  had  been  pathetically  lamenting  the  folly  with 
which  Blanche  was  resolved  to  throw  away  the  most 
desirable  establishment  in  the  world  ;  and  they  had  been 
indulging  in  unpleasant  anticipations  of  what  the  world 


144  BLANCHE. 

would  say,  when  it  was  known  that  a  daughter  of  theirs 
was  an  avowed  jilt.  The  door  of  the  breakfast-room 
opened,  and  Blanche  entered  :  Lord  Glenrith  followed 
close  behind.  I^ady  Falkingham  perceived,  at  a  glance, 
that  the  unacknowledged  hope,  which  she  had  still  cher- 
ished, of  Lord  Glenrith's  eloquence  prevailing  at  the  last, 
was  doomed  to  annihilation. 

During  their  absence  the  tea  had  been  brought  in, 
and  the  urn  was  smoking  and  boiling  upon  the  table. 
Lady  Blanche  sat  down  before  it,  and  rejoiced  in  her 
mother's  old-fashioned  fancy  for  having  the  tea  made  in 
the  drawing-room. 

Lady  Falkingham  and  her  daughter  took  the  earliest 
opportunity  of  retiring  for  the  night.  Lord  Glenrith 
lighted  their  candles,  and  opened  the  door  for  them.  As 
they  passed,  Lady  Falkingham  pressed  his  hand  with  an 
expressive  look  of  sorrow  and  regret.  Lady  Blanche 
held  out  hers,  and  uttered  in  a  low  voice, — "  We  part 
friends  !"     He  took  her  hand  and  turned  away. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  Lord  Falkingham  ad- 
dressed him  : — 

"  I  am  afraid,  Glenrith,  you  have  had  a  very  unpleasant 
conversation  with  my  daughter.  I  need  not  tell  you 
how  much  my  wife  and  myself  regret  the  foolish  fancy 
the  girl  has  taken  into  her  head.  But  what  can  we  do  ? 
We  cannot,  in  justice  to  you,  urge  her  to  fulfil  her  en- 
gagement." 

"  1  should  be  the  last  man  to  wish  Lady  Blanche's 
affections  to  be  controlled  ;  and  I  hope  1  know  suffi- 
ciently what  is  due  to  myself,  not  to  wish  any  woman 
to  be  forced  into  a  marriage  with  me." 

After  a  few  more  words  of  regret  and  kindness  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Falkingham,  they  also  parted  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning  all  the  jewels  and  trinkets  which  he 
had  presented  to  Blanche  were  restored  to  him,  and 
before  the  family  were  assembled  round  the  breakfast- 
table  he  was  several  miles  on  his  road  to  Wentnor 
Castle. 

Lord  Glenrith  felt  his  disappointment  keenly,  for  he 
loved  Blanche.     He  felt  his  mortification  keenly;  for, 


BLANCIIfi.  143 

ahhough  not  vain  (if  by  vanity  we  understand  a  desire 
to  show  off  in  the  eyes  of  others),  still  he  entertained  no 
mean  opinion  of  himself.  He  had  never  in  his  life  before 
met  with  any  thing  but  success.  He  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  the  admiring  aftection  of  his  parents,  the  devo- 
tion of  his  dependants,  the  goodfellowship  of  his  equals, 
the  attention  of  his  inferiors ;  and  he  had  been  early 
warned  by  his  mother  to  be  guarded  in  his  manner  to- 
wards young  ladies,  lest  he  should  excite  hopes  which 
he  could  not  realize — hopes  which  he  found  them,  gene- 
rally speaking,  only  too  ready  to  entertain.  Astonishment, 
therefore,  almost  equalled  the  other  emotions  to  which 
we  have  alluded.  He  turned  and  turned  in  his  head  how 
he  should  break  to  his  parents  the  result  of  the  preceding 
evening's  conversation,  and  he  felt  that  he  equally  dreaded 
their  pity  and  their  indignation. 

By  degrees,  as  he  got  farther  from  Temple  Loseley 
and  nearer  to  Wentnor  Castle,  he  found  his  love  and  his 
grief  diminish,  and  his  mortification  and  disappointment 
increase,  till,  by  the  time  he  reached  the  lodge,  he  thought 
he  could  have  endured  the  latter,  provided  the  pubhcity 
of  his  engagement  had  not  exposed  him,  while  writhing 
under  the  former,  to  the  pity,  the  stare,  and  the  jest  of 
great  and  small,  rich  and  poor,  old  and  young. 

Blanche's  first  sensation,  upon  retiring  to  her  room, 
was  that  of  relief  and  freedom.  She  felt  as  though  a 
weight  of  guilt  and  deceit  was  removed  from  her  bosom, 
and  she  resolved  she  would  now  indulge  herself  in  think- 
ing of  De  Molton  as  much  as  she  pleased.  But  the  mor- 
tified expression  of  Lord  Glenrith's  countenance  would 
rise  up  to  her  mind's  eye ;  and  she  found  herself  more 
occupied  with  him  and  less  with  the  image  of  De  Molton 
than  at  any  other  moment  since  their  meeting  at  Crans- 
ley.  She  scarcely  knew  whether  satisfaction  at  having 
now  done  that  which  was  decidedly  honest,  sincere,  and 
unworldly,  or  self-reproach  for  having  so  wronged  Lord 
Glenrith  by  ever  entering  into  an  engagement  with  him, 
ought  to  preponderate ;  and,  upon  the  whole,  she  found 
herself  less  happy  than  she  expected. 

The  ensuing  weeks  passed  drearily  enough.     Lady 

vol..  u. — N 


146  BLANCHE. 

Falkingham  was  under  the  necessity  of  announcing  to 
her  friends  and  relations  that  her  daughter's  marriage 
was  broken  off;  an  occupation  which  did  not  raise  her 
spirits,  or  smooth  her  temper.  Of  course  the  true  reason 
could  not  be  openly  divulged,  or  all  hope  must  be  relin- 
quished of  Blanche's  ever  forming  any  other  alliance.  It 
is  strange,  but  it  is  an  undoubted  fact,  that  a  girl  loses 
half  her  attraction,  if  her  maiden  affections  are  supposed 
to  have  been  in  any  degree  touched  ;  while  there  is  a 
peculiar  charm  attached  to  the  idea  of  a  widow,  although 
it  may  be  presumed  she  has  known  what  it  is  to  inspire 
and  to  experience  all  the  emotions  attendant  upon  love. 

Blanche  herself  wrote  to  her  sisters ;  and  as  she  felt 
that  her  rejection  of  Lord  Glenrith  bound  her  fate  in  some 
measure  to  that  of  Captain  De  Molton,  she  made  no  mys- 
tery of  the  prepossession  which  had  rendered  her  inca- 
pable of  doing  justice  to  Lord  Glenrith's  good  qualities. 

She  had  scarcely  despatched  these  letters,  when  she 
read  in  the  newspapers  the  departure  of  De  Molton  with 
his  regiment  for  the  East  Indies.  He  had  sailed  the 
very  day  of  her  final  interview  with  Lord  Glenrith.  She 
experienced  a  blank  sensation  nearly  allied  to  mortifica- 
tion ;  forgetting  what  were  tlie  motives  which  induced 
him  to  seek  safety  and  repose  in  another  hemisphere. 

Still,  when  she  rejected  Lord  Glenrith,  she  did  not 
quite  anticipate  that  there  was  to  be  an  end  of  every 
thing.  She  had  not  precisely  looked  forward  to  sitting 
down  quietly  in  deep  retirement  with  her  father  and 
mother,  till  the  arrival  of  another  spring  should  summon 
them  to  London,  there  to  be  dragged  the  weary  round 
of  insipid  entertainments,  without  the  hope  or  the  pos- 
sibility of  seeing  the  only  face  she  wished  to  see.  Her 
home  was  no  longer  what  it  had  been.  Lord  Falking- 
ham's  vanity  was  mortified  in  the  daughter  of  whom  he 
had  hitherto  been  exceedingly  proud.  Lady  Falking- 
ham, although  not  absolutely  unkind,  was  cold  and 
reserved,  and  never  encouraged  her  to  speak  of  a  feeling, 
which  she  always  treated  as  a  silly,  unreasonable,  youth- 
ful whim.  On  all  occasions,  the  attachments  of  young 
people  were  spoken  of  in  a  slighting  and  contemptuous 


BLANCHE.  147 

manner,  which  confirmed  Blanche  in  her  resolution  to 
prove  that  hers  was  not  a  passing  fancy — but  a  real,  sin- 
cere, and  respectable  attachment. 

Captain  De  Molton,  after  a  prosperous  voyage,  had 
arrived  at  Calcutta  just  about  the  time  when  the  meeting 
of  parliament  called  Lord  Falkingham  to  London ;  and 
Blanche  with  pain  and  disgust  saw  the  bracelets,  the 
trinkets,  the  jewels,  which  her  various  friends  had  given 
her  upon  her  expected  nuptials,  packed  up  to  adorn  her 
person  during  the  ensuing  season.  She  felt  she  never 
could  bring  herself  to  wear  these  tokens  ;  for  although 
it  had  been  impossible  to  return  any,  except  those  which 
had  been  presented  by  Lord  Glenrith's  family,  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  they  had  all  been  obtained  under  false  pre- 
tences. 

De  Molton  had  struggled  hard  to  bring  his  mind  to  a 
state  of  calm  acquiescence  in  his  fate.  He  had  tried  to 
accustom  himself  to  the  idea  of  Lady  Blanche  as  the 
wife  of  Lord  Glenrith ;  he  had  used  all  possible  means 
to  divert  his  thoughts  from  his  unfortunate  passion  ;  he 
had  occupied  himself  during  the  voyage  with  studying 
some  of  the  eastern  languages,  with  learning  every  thing 
connected  with  eastern  warfare ;  and  although  the  re- 
nown to  be  gained  in  India  at  the  expense  of  health,  if 
not  of  life,  falls  far  short  of  that  to  be  gained  in  a  Euro- 
pean campaign,  still  he  resolved  that  fame  should  now 
become  his  mistress. 

He  had  not  been  more  than  three  weeks  in  Culcutta 
when  a  letter  reached  him  from  his  mother,  which  over- 
turned all  the  good  resolutions  he  had  formed,  and 
rendered  him  almost  incapable  of  profiting  by  the  oppor- 
tunities which  now  offered  themselves  of  perfecting  his 
knowledge  of  Hindostanee  and  Sanscrit,  or  of  putting 
in  practice  the  tactics  he  had  studied. 

His  mother  informed  him  that  the  marriage  between 
Lord  Glenrith  and  Lady  Blanche  De  Vaux  was  suddenly 
broken  off,  and  that  no  cause  was  assigned  for  the  event 
except  that  the  lady  "  had  changed  her  mind."  She 
tried  to  persuade  him  that  the  case  was  as  hopeless  as 
ever  for  himself,  and  she  resisted  the  temptation  of  tell- 


148  BLANCHE. 

ing  him  it  was  whispered  that  a  preference  for  himself 
was  the  true  cause  of  the  rupture.  Although  she  longed 
to  communicate  what  she  knew  must  give  liim  pleasure, 
even  she  was  aware  that  it  would  be  weakness  and  folly 
to  keep  alive  a  passion  to  which  no  prosperous  termina- 
tion could  be  anticipated. 

Her  intelligence,  however,  was  sufficient  to  inspire 
De  Molton  with  an  ardent  desire  to  return  to  England. 
Lady  Blanche  was  free  :  honour  no  longer  called  upon 
him  to  avoid  her ;  on  the  contrary,  honour  seemed  to 
demand  that  he  should  now  profess  his  anxiety  to  devote 
himself  to  her  for  life ;  and  he  bitterly  lamented  having 
so  rashly  banished  himself  from  his  native  land.  Yet, 
upon  his  first  arrival  in  India,  he  could  not  in  decency 
apply  for  leave  of  absence.  He  suffered  tortures  of 
perplexity,  doubt,'and  anxiety.  At  one  time  he  thought 
he  would  write  to  Lady  Blanche,  and  regularly  make  her 
an  offer  of  himself  and  of  his  fortunes.  Then  he  shrank 
from  doing  so ;  for  what  were  the  fortunes  he  was  able 
to  offer  her?  and,  moreover,  such  a  proceeding  would 
be  assuming  that  it  was  for  his  sake  she  had  broken  off 
her  marriage  with  Lord  Glenrith, — a  conclusion  he  had 
in  fact  no  right  to  draw. 

The  news  contained  in  h\i,  mother's  letter  was  already 
six  months  old.  Before  his  answer  could  reach  England 
another  six  months  must  have  elapsed.  What  events 
might  not  have  taken  place  in  that  time  !  Lady  Blanche 
would  have  passed  through  another  season  in  London  : 
with  her  beauty,  she  must  have  been  sunx)unded  by  ad- 
mirers. It  was  possible,  nay,  probable,  that  his  letter 
might  find  her  married,  or  on  the  eve  of  marriage  with 
some  one  else.  How  ridiculous,  then,  would  his  con- 
ceited assumption  appear  in  her  eyes  !  No — he  would 
wait,  at  all  events,  for  further  information  ;  at  the  same 
time  fully  resolved  to  let  slip  no  opportunity  of  returning 
home,  when  he  might  easily  judge  for  himself  whether 
an  offer  on  his  part  would  or  would  not  be  esteemed 
presumption.  Then  again  he  thought,  if  for  his  sake 
Glenrith  had  indeed  been  rejected,  how  cold  and  how 
ungrateful  must  he  appear,  not  instantly  to  avail  himself 


BLANCHE.  149 

of  the  chance  afforded  him.  Fortunately  for  him,  his 
thoughts  were  necessarily  in  some  measure  withdrawn 
from  liis  own  annoyances,  by  his  regiment  being  marched 
up  the  country,  and  by  being  engaged  in  some  shght  but 
animating  skirmishes  with  the  Pindarries. 

The  prospect  of  active  service  rendered  his  applying 
for  leave  of  absence  absolutely  out  of  the  question.  All 
doubt  upon  that  question  was  thereby  set  at  rest.  It 
also  seemed  to  set  at  rest  the  question  whether  he  should 
or  should  not  address  Lady  Blanche  herself:  it  was  im- 
possible to  hint  at  her  plighting  her  troth  to  him  in  a 
foreign  land,  from  which  he  might  never  return,  or  of 
her  keeping  herself  disengaged  in  the  hope,  at  some 
future  indefinite  period,  of  following  the  drum  with  him 
from  country  quarter  to  country  quarter. 

He  relieved  his  mind  by  writing  to  his  mother  a  full 
statement  of  his  perplexed  feelings,  and  by  imploring  her, 
if  possible,  to  convey  them  to  Lady  Blanche  ;  and  having 
done  so,  he  resolutely  bent  all  his  energies  to  the  dis- 
charge of  his  professional  duties ;  while  his  heart  beat 
high  with  the  cheering  hope  of  returning  to  her  feet,  his 
name  coupled  with  deeds  of  valour,  and  illustrated  by 
feats  of  military  prowess. 


w2 


150  BLANCHE, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  soote  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings  ' 
With  greene  hath  cfadde  the  hyll,  and  eke  the  dale  j 

The  nightingall  with  feathers  new  she  sings, 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  the  tale. 

Lord  Surrey. 

The  '*  soote  season"  had  arrived,  and  the  Falkingham 
family  were  in  London.  Lady  Blanche's  heart  sank 
within  her  at  the  prospect  of  the  wearisome  pleasures 
in  which  she  would  be  forced  to  join.  She  shrank  also 
from  the  idea  of  being  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a 
jilt. 

Though  Lady  Falkingham,  by  her  system  of  educa- 
tion, had  not  been  able  to  subdue  the  natural  warmth 
of  Lady  Blanche's  feelings,  or  her  somewhat  headlong 
indulgence  of  them,  she  had  succeeded  in  inspiring  her 
with  her  own  horror  of  being  subject  to  the  animad- 
versions or  the  ridicule  of  the  world  ;  and  Lady 
Blanche  felt,  more  keenly  than  most  girls,  what  is  con- 
sidered as  a  disgrace  by  all  who  have  been  well 
brought  up. 

She  thought  that  the  only  mode  of  redeeming  herself 
in  the  estimation  of  others  was  to  adopt  manners  the 
most  reserved  ;  and  to  justify,  by  her  scrupulous  fidelity 
to  the  object  for  whom  it  was  now  pretty  generally 
understood  she  had  rejected  Lord  Glenrith,  the  incon- 
sistency from  which  she  could  not  clear  herself. 

Lady  Falkingham,  whose  most  ardent  wish  was  to 
see  her  daughter  settled,  was  in  a  continual  state  of 
vexation  at  the  distant  and  chilling  manner  with  which 
Blanche  received  the  most  common  attentions.  There 
was  truth  in  the  charge  her  mother  brought  against 
her,  of  being  on  the  defensive,  even  before  she  was 
attacked  ;  and  though  there  is  nothing  more  attractive 


BLANCHE.  151 

than  the  reserve  which  springs  from  innate  modesty, 
Lady  Falkingham  knew  full  well,  that  few  things  more 
olfend  the  self-love  of  men,  and  render  them  proof 
against  the  charms  a  woman  may  really  possess,  than 
the  reserve  which  seems  to  proceed  from  contempt,  or 
from  a  predetermination  to  check  their  advances. 

Blanche  would  gladly  have  passed  her  days  in  retire- 
ment ;  but  her  parents  believed  that  the  only  mode  of 
effacing  the  impression  made  by  Captain  De  Molton  was 
to  place  her  in  the  society  of  others.  Moreover,  to 
seclude  herself  entirely  from  the  world,  would  be  a  tacit 
acknowledgment  of  deserving  blame.  At  all  the  usual 
places  of  amusement  they  were  consequently  seen. 
But  the  calm  brow  of  Lady  Falkingham  had  acquired 
a  careful  and  discontented  expression ;  and  the  bright 
glances  and  glowing  smile  of  Lady  Blanche,  had  given 
place  to  a  cold  and  stately  pensiveness.  She  danced 
occasionally,  but  partners  no  longer  disputed  the  hon- 
our of  her  hand.  She  sometimes  received  compli- 
ments, nor  did  she  dislike  them  ;  for  as  she  felt  an  in- 
ternal dissatisfaction,  she  would  have  enjoyed  any  thing 
which  tended  to  reconcile  her  to  herself;  but  she  was 
so  afraid  of  appearing  to  enjoy  them,  that  she  assumed 
a  disdainful  manner,  which  effectually  prevented  any 
recurrence  of  what  appeared  to  give  offence. 

With  Lady  Westhope  alone  did  she  find  any  com- 
fort. To  her  she  opened  her  whole  heart — with  her 
she  talked  over  each  trifling  incident  which  had  oc- 
curred during  their  visit  to  Paris — to  her  she  repeated 
every  word  De  Molton  had  said — to  her  she  dwelt  on 
his  looks,  his  manner,  his  expression,  in  their  last  inter- 
view at  Cransley.  Lady  Falkingham  little  guessed 
that  the  cold,  the  discreet,  the  immaculate  Lady  West- 
hope,  could  be  a  companion  so  little  calculated  to  lead 
her  daughter  to  a  reasonable  and  worldly  view  of  her 
own  prospects, — Lady  Westhope,  who,  unknown  to 
herself,  was  every  day  acquiring  a  more  thorough  con- 
viction, that  in  mutual  affection  alone  can  a  married 
■woman  expect  to  find  happiness.  Blanche's  conversa- 
tions with  Lady  Westhope  tended,  not  only  to  keep 


152  BLANCHE, 

alive  the  impression  produced  at  Paris,  they  also  made 
her  feel  still  more  pledged  to  adhere  to  the  attachment 
which  she  professed. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  season  when  Lord 
Glenrith  arrived  in  London.  He  and  Lady  Blanche 
occasionally  met  at  public  places,  in  large  and  mixed 
society.  Their  first  meeting  was  inexpressibly  awk- 
ward. By  some  untoward  accident,  they  found  them- 
selves vis-d-vis  of  each  other  in  a  quadrille.  Although 
good-breeding  might  prompt  the  fourteen  or  eighteen 
other  people  in  the  quadrille  to  withdraw  their  eyes 
from  the  pair  who  had  once  been  lovers,  their  attention 
could  not  fail  to  be  riveted  upon  them.  They  were  to 
meet  as  friends  ;  consequently,  they  bowed  when  first 
they  caught  each  other's  eye,  and  both  blushed  equally 
crimson.  The  rest  of  the  time  they  advanced  and  re- 
treated, performed  their  queues  de  chat  and  their  dos-d- 
dos,  without  raising  their  eyes  from  the  floor ;  but  when 
poor  Lord  Glenrith  was  obliged  in  the  pasiorelle  to 
figure  before  Lady  Blanche  as  cavalier  seul,  she  felt 
ready  to  sink  into  the  earth  with  distress  on  his  account 
as  well  as  on  her  own.  The  effect  which  this  position 
had  upon  Lord  Glenrith,  and  the  degree  to  which  his 
pride  and  his  self-love  suffered  under  the  gaze  of  others, 
may  be  conceived  from  the  circumstance  of  his  that 
night  resolving  he  would  not  long  be  seen  in  the  light 
of  a  discarded  lover,  and  of  his  beginning  the  very 
next  day  a  series  of  devoted  attentions  to  the  lovely 

daughter  of  the  Duke  of  L .     Before  the  London 

season  drew  to  a  close,  the  magnificent  trousseau  of 
the  future  Lady  Glenrith  was  the  general  subject  of 
conversation  among  young  ladies,  and  the  beautiful 
horses  and  equipages  of  Lord  Glenrith,  that  among 
young  gentlemen. 

Then  came  the  morning  when  the  narrow  entrance 
to  St.  George's  Church  was  crammed  with  lovely  bride- 
maids,  and  weeping,  smiling  relations ;  and  the  after- 
noon, when  half  the  coachmen  and  footmen  in  the  Park 
appeared  Vi^ith  gorgeous  favours  in  their  hats ;  and  the 
evening,  when  little  morsels  of  tinsel,  ensconced  in  white 


BLANCHE. 


153 


satin  riband,  were  seen  pinned  to  the  side,  or  stuck  in 
the  buttonhole,  of  all  the  most  distinguished  personages 
of  both  sexes. 

Blanche  and  her  affairs  were  utterly  forgotten  ;  and 
she  heard  on  all  sides  descriptions  of  the  loveliness  of 
the  bride,  and  the  happiness  of  the  bridegroom. 

In  sober  earnest,  Blanche  rejoiced  that  her  anticipa- 
tions with  regard  to  Lord  Glenrith  had  been  so  soon 
realized ;  and  if  she  could  have  seen  De  Molton — if 
she  could  have  heard  him  speak — if  she  could  have  re- 
ceived any  communication  from  him — if  she  could  have 
indulged  any  hope  of  ever  herself  knowing  the  happi- 
ness of  reciprocal  affection,  she  would  have  utterly 
despised  the  frivolous  grandeurs  which  excited  such  a 
sensation  in  the  London  world. 

But  with  her  all  seemed  a  blank.  She  had  wished 
her  story  should  be  forgotten, — and  it  was  forgotten. 
No  one  seemed  to  remember  that  she  might  have  been 
in  Lady  Mary  L.'s  situation.  She  wished  people  to  be 
aware  that,  though  she  had  jilted  Lord  Glenrith,  she 
was  no  flirt ;  and  she  had  succeeded  I  No  one  at- 
tempted to  make  love  to  her. 

She  was  sitting  with  Lady  Westhope,  when  Mr. 
Wroxholme,  who  had  been  paying  a  morning  visit,  took 
his  leave.  "  I  have  just  heard  what  is  to  me  a  very 
melancholy  piece  of  intelligence,"  said  Lady  Blanche. 
"  Mr.  Wroxholme  tells  me  parliament  will  sit  three 
weeks  longer.  I  feel  so  weary,  and  so  jaded  with  the 
joyless  entertainments  to  which  mamma  thinks  it  her 
duty  to  take  me  !  She  fancies  I  may  thus  forget;  but 
she  is  mistaken.  My  thoughts  only  recur  the  oftener 
to  him  from  whom  she  hopes  to  wean  them.  I  think, 
when  among  a  number  of  indifferent  people,  one  feels 
the  want  of  the  person  with  whom  one  would  fain  in- 
terchange thoughts  and  feelings,  even  more  acutely 
than  in  the  retirement  of  one's  own  home." 

"  That  is  only  too  true,"  answered  Lady  Westhope, 


with  a  sigh 


'  This  is  to  be  alone — this,  this  is  solitude." 


154  BLANCHE. 

"  I  like  Mr.  Wroxholme,"  rejoined  Lady  Blanche. 
"  He  looks  as  if  he  could  understand  one.  I  always 
feel  at  my  ease  with  him." 

"  I  told  you  you  would  like  him  !  For  my  part,  I 
think  he  is  quite  an  acquisition.  I  know  no  one  who 
is  d'unplus  doux  commerce.  He  has  so  much  tact,  and 
he  is  particularly  obliging  1  One  has  but  to  express 
before  him  a  wish  for  any  thing,  and  one  is  sure  to  find 
one's  wish  gratified." 

"  And  then  he  has  another  great  merit  in  my  eyes  : 
he  cannot  endure  Mr.  Stapleford." 

"Aijd  I  know  of  one  more  merit  still,"  added  Lady 
Westhope,  with  a  smile  ;  "  he  likes  Captain  De  Molton. 
They  were  schoolfellows,  you  know." 

Mr.  Wroxholme  had  been  always  interested  for 
Lady  Blanche  and  her  lover,  and,  with  the  tact  for 
which  he  was  supposed  to  be  remarkable,  had  from  the 
first  read  her  feelings.  When  her  marriage  had  been 
broken  off,  Lady  Westhope  had  not  scrupled  to  speak 
confidentially  to  a  person  who  had  shown  so  much 
sympathy  and  kindness  concerning  her  friend.  Mr. 
Wroxholme  had  warmly  approved  of  Lady  Blanche's 
disinterestedness,  and,  naturally  enough,  had  spoken  his 
sentiments  on  the  subject  of  worldly  marriages. 

He  seemed  to  consider  congeniality  of  tempers, 
tastes,  and  opinions,  as  the  only  objects  to  be  sought  in 
such  a  connection  ;  and  there  was  something  to  Lady 
Westhope's  feelings  singularly  soothing  and  agreeable 
in  hearing  such  sentiments  so  warmly  expressed,  espe- 
cially as  her  strict  notions  of  propriety  could  not  take 
the  alarm  at  a  disprejudiced  observer  merely  giving  an 
opinion  upon  the  affairs  of  a  third  person. 

All  he  said  breathed  a  tone  of  high  respect  for  the 
sex  in  general, — a  generous  horror  of  seeing  a  woman 
thrown  away  upon  a  man  who  was  not  worthy  of  her, 
or  who  did  not  sufficiently  value  her,  which  could  not 
fail  to  be  gratifying  to  a  person  who  felt  such  to  be  her 
own  case. 

The  indignation  he  felt  at  Lord  Westhope's  neglect 


BLANCHE.  155 

of  his  wife,  and  tiie  pleasure  she  took  in  finding  herself 
appreciated,  might  gradually  and  unconsciously  have 
led  them  both  to  entertain  sentiments  for  which  both 
would  have  reproached  themselves,  had  nothing  oc- 
curred to  arouse  them  to  a  sense  of  their  danger.  An 
incident  did  however  occur,  which,  though  trifling  in 
itself,  served  to  open  the  eyes  of  one  who  had  no  wish 
to  keep  them  wilfully  closed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Gentil  parlar,  in  cui  chiaro  refulse 
Con  somma  cortesia,  somma  onestate  ; 
Fior  di  virtu  ;  fontana  di  beltate  ; 
Ch'  ogni  basso  pensier  del  cor  m'avulse. 

Petrarca. 

Lady  Westhope's  praises  of  Mr.  Wroxholme,  and 
her  intimation  of  his  early  intimacy  with  Captain  De 
Molton,  led  Lady  Blanche  to  talk  to  him  with  more 
satisfaction  than  to  any  one  else.  When  in  conversa- 
tion with  him,  her  countenance  resumed  some  of  its 
former  animation  ;  and  they  frequently  met,  and  always 
met  with  pleasure. 

One  evening  Mr.  Wroxholme  had  been  recounting 
to  Lady  Blandie  some  boyish  prank  at  school,  in  which 
he  had  contrived  to  let  her  know  that  De  Molton  had 
been  engaged  ;  she  had  been  listening  with  an  expres- 
sion of  amusement,  which  had  been  succeeded  by  a 
look,  half  confusion,  half  tenderness,  on  the  incidental 
mention  of  De  Molton's  name,  when  Mr.  Stapleford  re- 
marked to  Lady  Westhopo,  "  I  think  the  conversation 
in  that  recess  seems  to  justify  the  report  1  heard  yester- 
day." 

"  What  report?"  inquired  Lady  Westhope. 

"  Why,  that  Wroxholme  might  succeed  in  consoling 


156  BLANCHE. 

Lady  Blanche  for  the  loss  of  her  penniless  as  well  as  of 
her  wealthy  lover."  .^ 

"  Oh,  what  an  idea !"  exclaimed  Lady  Westhope. 

"  I  assure  you  the  report  is  very  general,  and  1  think 
there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  VVroxholme  is  very 
much  in  love." 

"  There  never  was  so  unfounded  a  notion  I  What 
could  put  it  into  anybody's  head  ?" 

"Though  no  blue-stocking,  I  presume  Lady  West- 
hope  knows  enough  of  optics  lo  be  aware  that  the  rays 
of  light  reflected  from  objects  actually  before  us,  pass- 
ing through  the  different  lenses  of  the  eye,  are  im- 
pressed upon  the  retina,  and  are,  by  some  process  be- 
yffnd  the  comprehension  of  us  poor  mortals,  thence 
communicated  to  the  brain  ;  in  plain  English,  Lady 
Westhope  has  heard  the  old  adage,  that  seeing  is  be- 
lieving." 

His  eyes,  when  he  began  to  speak,  were  fixed  upon 
Lady  Blanche,  who  was  'diligently  picking  to  pieces  the 
bouquet  she  held  in  her  hand  (Mr.  Wroxholme  was  tell- 
ing her  what  a  good-hearted  fellow  Frank  De  Molton 
was  at  school,  and  how  kind  he  had  been  to  a  poor  boy 
who  had  been  run  over  by  a  cart) ;  but  as  he  finished 
his  sentence,  he  withdrew  his  most  penetrating  and  dis- 
agreeable eyes  from  the  couple,  whose  feelings  he,  for 
on»e,  misinterpreted,  and  let  them  fall  gently  and  fixedly 
on  Lady  Westhope. 

"  I  can  assure  you,  you  are  perfectly  mistaken  in  this 
instance,"  Lady  Westhope  replied  with  some  quick- 
ness. "  Lady  Blanche  is  only  likely  to  be  persever- 
ingly,  foolishly,  constant ;  and  as  to  Mr.  Wroxholme's 
being  in  love  with  her,  it  is  quite  out  of  the  question." 

"  Why  out  of  the  question?"  asked  Mr.  Stapleford, 
with  the  most  provoking  matter-of-fact  coolness. 

Lady  Westhope  did  not  very  well  know  why  it  was 
so ;  but  she  answered — 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  the  sort  of  man  to  fall  in  love  with 
Blanche." 

"  He  is  an  odd  sort  of  man,  then,  if  it  is  out  of  the 
question  for  him  to  fall  in  love  with  one  of  the  hand- 


BLANCHE.  157 

somest  girls  in  London,  who  plucks  off  every  leaf  of  a 
beautiful  camellia  while  he  is  talking  to  her!  A  pre- 
possession in  another  quarter  might  steel  a  man's  heart 
even  against  such  attractions  as  those  I  have  alluded 
to ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  I^ady  Westhope  is  better 
versed  in  the  mysterious  workings  of  the  human  heart 
than  I  can  pretend  to  be.  I  must  bow,  therefore,  to  her 
superior  knowledge  of  the  state  of  Mr.  Wroxholme's 
affections;"  and  with  a  supercilious  bow  he  joined  a 
knot  of  politicians. 

Lady  Westhope  felt  prodigiously  annoyed.  She 
could  not  tell  why  she  disliked  so  mush  to  hear  that 
Mr.  Wroxholme  was  j^Jove^vith  Lady  Blanche. 
There  was  no  harm  i^^^^H^^.  She  looked  upon 
him  as  a  man  with  whom  ^^^man  might  be  very 
^appy;  and,  although  not  riclPW  had  a  competency. 
Why  was  she  so  certain  he  entertained  no  particular 
preference  for  her  friend  ?  and  why  did  she  feel  ag- 
grieved at  the  suspicion  ?  It  could  not  be  that,  at  her 
age,  after  having  passed  unscathed  through  all  the  trials 
of  her  youth,  her  own  heart  was  in  any  danger  ?  What 
a  humiliating,  what  a  degrading  surmise !  She  felt 
almost  ashamed  of  suspecting  herself  of  such  a  weak- 
ness ;  one  that  she  would  always  have  thought  criminal, 
but  that  now  would  be  ridiculous  as  well  as  criminal. 
It  was  evident,  however,  that  Mr.  Stapleford  did  sus- 
pect her  of  harbouring  so  ridiculous  a  prepossession, 
and  she  scrutinized  her  own  feelings  with  resolute 
accuracy. 

The  truth  was,  that  she  had  been  accustomed  for 
some  months  to  feel  herself  the  first  object  with  Mr. 
Wroxholme  ;  and  although  no  words  ever  passed  which 
expressed,  or  implied,  that  such  might  be  the  case,  it 
was  that  consciousness  which  made  her  find  his  society 
so  agreeable.  She  had  felt  so  secure  that  she  was  past 
the  age  when  she  need  guard  her  heart  from  tender  im- 
pressions, that  she  had  relaxed  in  her  former  watchful- 
ness ;  she  had  felt  so  strong  in  her  virtue,  that  she  had 
not  taken  heed  lest  she  might  fall ;  and  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  deep  humiliation  and  self-abasement  that  she 

VOL.  H. O 


158  .     BLANCHE. 

awoke  to  a  conviction  of  her  weakness.  She  thence- 
forth resolved  to  keep  strict  watch  and  ward  over  her 
inward  feeUngs  as  well  as  over  her  outward  actions. 

These  resolutions  were  more  easily  taken  than  car- 
ried into  effect :  she  had  no  right  to  assume  coldness 
towards  a  person  who  had  never  given  her  the  slightest 
cause  of  offence,  who  had  never  presumed  upon  the 
intimate  fooling  to  which  he  had  been  admitted  in  the 
house. 

How  difficult  is  it,  with  the  very  best  intentions,  for 
a  woman  who  lives  in  the  world  to  steer  entirely  clear 
of  suspicion,  or  misinterpretation,  unless  there  exists 
between  her  and  her  ^3sbam^|n-ank  and  cordial  under- 
standing! If,  wit h^Bjj^^^mowl edge  of  the  world, 
Lady  VVesthope  dic^^^^nd  it  easy  to  shape  her  con- 
duct so  as  to  be  dsBlet  without  prudery,  and  cool,  i 
without  unkindness,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  inexpe- 
rienced should,  without  really  deserving  it,  occasionally  i 
lay  themselves  open  to  blame. 

The  subject  of  love  is  one  which  young  ladies  are 
not  allowed  to  discuss;  at  least,  not  with  their  elders.    ! 
But  how  much  have  parents  to  answer  for.  who,  by    ( 
their  avoidance  of  the  subject,  leave  the  responsibility    j 
of  forming  their  daughters'  minds  on  a  point  of  such    | 
vital  importance  to  the  man  whom  they  may  chance  to 
marry  !     How  much  has  the  husband  to  answer  for,  i 
who,  by  his  neglect,  his  sternness,  or  his  profligate  no-  < 
lions,  fails  to  becon)e  the  guardian  of  the  virtue  he  is  i 
bound    to    protect !      Yet,   by  light   conversation,   by 
reporting  gossiping  anecdotes,  and  witty  though  im- 
moral jokes,  how  irequently  does  he  treat  with  levity, 
and   make  the   subject  of  mirth  and  ridicule,  errors, 
nay,  crimes,  which   hitherto   the   girlish   matron   has 
scarcely  ventured  to   contemplate!      Is  it  wonderful 
that  the  young  mind  should  sometimes,  when  it  fancies  i 
it  only  throws  oft"  the  shackles  of  old-fashioned  preju- 
dice, discard  at  the  same  time  the  restraint  of  rigid 
principle?      And  the  husband  who  has  thus  contami- 
nated the  fountain  whence  the  actions  flow,  is  surprised 
and  indignant  that  the  purity  he  once  admired  should 


BLANCHE.  159 

have  given  place  to  notions  more  resembling  his  own ! 
Is  it  surprising  that  a  young  creature,  whose  mind  is  thus 
deprived  of  ballast  and  of  rudder,  should  in  the  voy- 
age of  life  fail  to  steer  clear  of  shoals  and  hidden  reefs  ? 

Fortunately,  Lady  Westhope  had  withstood  the  first 
trial, — that  of  being  early  united  to  an  unprincipled 
man  ;  and  she  had  now  acquired  knowledge  of  the 
world,  which  enabled  her  to  meet  her  present  difficulty. 

She  debated  within  herself  whether  talking  to  him 
freely  concerning  marriage,  and  advising  one,  who  ap- 
peared to  entertain  such  exalted  notions  of  the  happi- 
ness to  be  found  in  the  wedded  state,  to  enter  into  it 
himself,  might  not  be  a  good  mode  of  proving  how 
completely  she  considered  herself  in  the  light  of  a 
friend,  though  of  a  kind  friend  deeply  interested  in  his 
welfare;  but,  upon  the  whole,*§he  decided  that  it  was 
entering  upon  a  dangerous  topic.  It  might  be  con- 
strued into  the  common  artifice  of  coquettes  to  pique,  or 
to  lead  to  sentimental  conversation;  and  if,  unknown 
to  himself,  he  did  entertain  for  her  the  feelings  she 
more  than  suspected,  it  might  open  his  eyes  to  the  true 
nature  of  them,  as  Mr.  Stapleford's  insinuations  had 
opened  hers. 

In  her  early  youth  she  had  made  to  herself  a  rule 
never  to  admit  male  visiters  in  the  morning:  but  since 
she  had  approached  the  middle  age,  she  had  gradually 
relaxed  in  the  strictness  of  her  prohibition  ;  and  gentle- 
men now  lounged  on  her  sofas,  and  whipped  their  boots 
before  her  fire  as  freely  as  in  any  other  house  in  London ; 
and  no  one  more  frequently  than  Mr.  Wroxholme. 
These  visits,  in  the  first  place,  she  resolved  to  check ; 
but  she  knew  that  an  explanation  was  always  a  thing 
to  be  most  scrupulously  avoided  ;  by  remaining  late  in 
her  boudoir,  and  denying  herself  to  all  persons  equally, 
on  the  plea  of  not  being  dressed  :  by  seizing  every 
opportunity  of  taking  an  early  drive  into  the  country, 
she  for  some  lime  succeeded  in  her  object,  without 
wounding  one  whose  only  fault  consisted  in  regarding 
her  with  respectful  partiality.  When  he  did  find  her 
at  home,  she  received  him  cordially,  and  he  was  for  the 


160  BLA^ICUE. 

moment  reassured  that  she  had  not  intentionally  avoided 
his  society.  When  they  met  in  public,  though  she 
spoke  to  him  but  little,  she  carefully  preserved  the  tone 
of  friendliness  and  intimacy. 

Still,  in  the  long  run,  gently  and  gradually,  as  the 
change  was  made,  iVIr.  Wroxholme  perceived  that  there 
was  a  change.  He  could  not  but  become  aware  that 
he  was  less  frequently  invited  to  dinner ;  and  when 
invited,  that  it  was  to  large  set  parties,  and  not  to  the 
hasty  repast  before  the  play,  the  friendly  gathering  of 
a  few  intimates ;  and  he  could  not  but  be  struck  with 
the  numerous  avocations  and  engagements  which  so 
often  prevented  his  finding  Lady  Westhope  at  home  of 
a  morning. 

In  the  course  of  time,  he  became  hurt  and  half  angry. 
He  had  always  heard  rhat  fine  ladies  were  apt  to  be 
capricious,  and  his  pride  was  wounded  :  he  was  a 
gentleman  in  mind,  in  manners,  and  in  birth ;  and  his 
spirit  rose  at  the  bare  suspicion  of  having  been  so 
sported  with.  He,  in  his  turn,  avoided  Lady  Westhope, 
and  this  was  the  severest  trial  she  had  yet  met  with. 

They  still,  however,  occasionally  met ;  for  both 
parties  wished  to  preserve  the  same  demeanour  towards 
the  other.  Mr.  Wroxholme  took  an  opportunity  of 
expatiating  upon  the  meanness  of  those  men  who 
could  condescend  to  be  toad-eaters  and  hangers-on  of 
the  great.  He  had  no  notion  how  any  one  with  the 
feelings  of  a  gentleman  could  endure  being  taken  up 
and  set  down  at  pleasure  ;  and  asserted,  "  that  a  man 
who  could  submit  to  such  treatment,  amply  deserved 
to  meet  with  it !"  There  was  a  tone  of  asperity  in  his 
mode  of  speaking  which  proved  that  his  was  not  a 
general  observation  on  men  and  manners,  but  that  he 
spoke  from  personal  feeling.  She  was  inexpressibly 
hurt,  and  she  determined  she  would  by  some  means  let 
him  know  she  was  not  one  of  the  heartless  fine  ladies 
to  whom  he  alluded. 

The  evening  before  their  departure  for  the  country, 
she  invited  a  few  friends  to  meet  at  her  house ;  and 
among  others,  Mr.  Wroxliolme.     She  had  formed  no  -, 


BLANCHE.  161 

distinct  plan;  and  yet  she  vaguely  hoped  she  should  be 
able  to  undeceive  him,  and  to  correct  the  impression  he*' 
had  so  erroneously  received  of  her  late  conduct. 

Notwithstanding  his  wounded  pride,  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  pass  one  more  evening  in  her  society. 

The  party  was  small,  the  conversation  general : 
subjects  of  literature  were  discussed;  the  novels  of  the 
day  were  naturally  mentioned.  From  them  she  easily 
led  the  discourse  to  the  French  novels  of  the  day  that 
is  passed,  and  she  took  the  opportunity  of  remarking 
how  just  were  the  little  observations  and  reflections 
with  which  they  were  often  interspersed.  Mr.  Wrox- 
holme  added,  that  in  knowledge  of  the  smaller  workings 
of  the  human  heart,  he  thought  Madame  de  Genlis  was 
scarcely  inferior  to  Madame  de  Stael. 

"  But  none  of  Madame  de  Genlis's  are  equal  in  power 
to  Delphine,"  replied  Lady  Westhope. 

"  Are  you  a  great  admirer  of  Delphine  ?"  inquired 
some  one. 

"A  great  admirer  of  the  eloquence  and  fire  with 
which  it  is  written  :  and  if  the  motto  at  the  beginning 
is  borne  in  mind,  the  truth  of  which  is  forcibly  exem- 
plified by  the  fate  of  both  the  hero  and  heroine,  I  think 
a  great  moral  truth  may  be  extracted  from  it ;  though 
I  grant  that  the  charm  thrown  around  immoral  feelings 
might  render  it  a  dangerous  book  for  the  young." 

"  And  what  is  the  motto  ?" 

"  '  Que  I'homme  doit  braver  I'opinion,  la  femme  s'y 
soumettre.'  All  the  miseries  of  Leonce  and  Delphine 
arise  from  neither  of  them  following  the  maxim  con- 
tained in  the  motto.  How  fortunate  it  is  for  us  wo- 
men, that  the  opinion  of  the  world  and  virtue  always 
prescribe  the  same  line  of  conduct !  There  are  many 
occasions  in  which  it  is  praiseworthy,  nay,  admirable, 
in  a  man  to  risk  the  censure  of  his  fellows  ;  many  in 
which  he  may  act  ill  without  risking  it.  But  with  us 
it  is  quite  difierent :  it  is  seldom  that  we  incur  the  con- 
demnation of  our  own  consciences,  or  the  disapproba- 
tion of  others,  if  we  avoid,  not  only  what  is  really  wrong, 
but  that  which  may  bear  the  semblance  of  wrong." 

o  2 


162  BLANCHE. 

"  Well,"  interrupted  a  young  man  present,  "  I  think 
it  is  enough  for  man  or  woman  to  do  what  is  right,  and 
to  leave  appearances  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

"I  am  glad  it  is  a  man,  not  a  woman,  who  says 
so,"  resumed  Lady  Westhope,  smiling.  "  1  am  always 
grieved  and  alarmed  when  I  hear  a  woman  speak  with 
contempt  of  the  opinion  of  the  world :  it  argues  in  her 
neither  good  feeling,  cleverness,  nor  true  courage.  True 
courage  (in  woman)  consists  in  at  once  giving  up  what 
may  be  agreeable  and  innocent  in  itself,  rather  than 
risk  having  one's  good  name  called  in  question." 

Mr.  Wroxholme  had  listened  with  interest,  for  his 
attention  had  been  arrested  by  the  earnestness  with 
which  Lady  Westhope  spoke.  He  suddenly  understood 
all  that  had  previously  puzzled  him  in  her  conduct. 
He  admired  and  respected  her  ;  and  his  wounded  pride, 
his  offended  vanity,  were  soothed. 

When  she  bade  him  adieu,  she  expressed  a  hope  that 
he  would  join  their  Christmas  party  at  Cransley :  she 
did  not  invite  him  for  partridge  shooting  in  September, 
as  she  had  done  the  previous  year.  He  felt  that  she 
meant  to  be  kind,  yet  firm  ;  and  although  the  interve- 
ning six  months  appeared  to  him  immeasurably  long 
in  perspective,  he  had  too  much  principle  himself,  to 
blame  her  or  to  repine. 

There  was  a  cordiality  in  the  respectful  devotion 
with  which  Mr.  Wroxholme  took  his  leave,  which  con- 
vinced Lady  Westliope  that  he  no  longer  looked  upon 
her  as  a  capricious  fine  lady,  but  as  a  woman  of  rigid, 
uncompromising  virtue. 

She  felt,  however,  lowered  in  her  own  estimation 
when  she  could  not  disguise  from  herself  how  great  an 
effort  it  cost  her  to  exercise  this  same  virtue  ;  and  she 
was  indignant,  almost  disgusted  with  herself,  when 
she  found  her  home  cheerless,  and  her  time  unoccu- 
pied, upon  her  arrival  in  the  country.  This  very  feel- 
ing roused  her  to  shake  off  the  disgraceful  weakness  ; 
and  she  resumed  her  wonted  employments,  and  strove 
to  make  to  herself  new  ones. 


BLANCHE.  163 


CHAPTER  X. 

And  words  of  small  import,  but  tinged  with  gall, 

Jar  on  the  sense  by  their  unkindly  tone. 
The  morning  greeting  may  sound  harsh  withal, 

The  evening  benison  a  curse  may  own  ; 
While  oft  a  smile — a  kindly  look  alone — 

Born  of  compunction,  falls  right  soothingly 
On  the  sick  heart,  the  past  otlence  t'  atone, 

Ere  word  be  spoke  at  all :  as  violets  shy, 
By  their  sweet  breath  betray  where  they  are  lurking  nigh. 

Unpublished  Poems. 

The  events  of  the  last  few  weeks  in  London  had  also 
awakened  Mr.  Wroxholme  to  the  state  of  his  own  affec- 
tions ;  and  he  no  sooner  admitted  to  himself  that  he  had 
been  in  danger  of  liking  Lady  Westhope  too  well,  than 
he  rejoiced  in  the  prudence  and  discretion  with  which 
she  had  checked  his  growing  preference,  and  felt  grateful 
that  he  had  been  preserved  from  the  danger  which 
beset  him. 

During  the  period  when  London  is  nearly  deserted, 
and  the  few  who  are  still  detajned  in  its  dreary  and  dirty 
streets,  are  naturally  drawn  into  habits  of  closer  intimacy, 
he  was  much  thrown  with  the  daughter  of  an  eminent 
lawyer,  with  whom  he  often  had  professional  intercourse. 

He  fancied  a  considerable  resemblance  to  Lady  West- 
hope's  in  the  profile  of  her  nose  :  her  complexion  was  of 
the  same  tone  ;  and  he  perceived  a  decided  likeness  in 
the  setting  on  of  the  head. 

When  Christmas  arrived,  Mr.  Wroxholme  wrote  an 
excuse  to  the  Westhopes,  informing  them  that  he  was  on 

the  eve  of  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  Sir  H.  B , 

and  that  the  arrangements  attending  this  haf)py  event 
must  detain  him  in  London.  He  told  Lady  Westhope 
that  his  future  bride  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  herself 
in  outward  appearance,  and  that  he  only  hoped  that 


164  BLANCHE. 

she  might  take  her  as  a  pattern  in  more  essential  quah- 
fications. 

How  did  Lady  Westhope  feel  on  the  reception  of  this 
letter  ?  She  felt  exceedingly  surprised,  for  experience 
only  can  teach  woman  how  short  a  time  love  can  survive 
hope  in  the  heart  of  man  ;  but  she  felt  satisfied,  nay, 
relieved.  She  had  for  six  months  devoted  herself  to  the 
performance  of  her  duties, — she  had  repelled  every  weak 
emotion.  She  rejoiced  that  Mr.  Wroxholme  should  be 
happy,  she  rejoiced  that  she  would  no  longer  be  called 
upon  to  keep  strict  watch  and  ward  over  her  own  heart, 
and  she  was  gratified  by  the  manner  in  which  she  spoke 
of  herself.  The  likeness  which  he  professed  to  discover 
in  Miss  B.  was  a  balm  to  her  vanity,  and  prevented  its 
obscuring  her  reason.  She  was  therefore  able  to  rejoice, 
as  her  principles  pointed  out  she  ought  to  do,  that  they 
had  escaped  all  further  trial. 

While  Lady  Westhope  was  thus  regaining  tranquillity 
and  self  esteem,  Blanche  toiled  through  a  long  summer 
of  very  fine  weather  and  the  usual  country  occupations — 
through  a  long  autumn  and  its  shooting  parties.  She  had 
to  listen  to  the  number  of  head  of  game  killed  at  battues, 
or  to  the  merits  of  the  young  hounds,  or  of  the  new 
huntsman ;  and  she  conscientiously  danced  through  the 
winter  balls  at  the  county  town. 

In  some  respects  she  gave  great  satisfaction  to  the 
neighbours.  No  one  could  accuse  her  of  showing  the 
slightest  preference  for  the  most  distinguished  young 
heir  apparent  over  the  most  Tony  Lumpkin-like  son  of 
the  most  humble  country  'squire,  or  the  most  penniless 
young  curate,  who  might  summon  courage  to  ask  Lady 
Blanche  De  Vaux  to  dance.  Indeed,  the  more  out  of 
the  question  the  partner,  the  more  gracious  was  Blanche ; 
so  that  the  popularity  of  the  house  of  Falkingham  was 
greatly  on  the  increase.  Unfortunately,  there  was  no 
son,  or  his  chance  of  being  returned  for  the  county 
would  have  been  considerably  augmented.  Lord  Falk- 
ingham's  family  consisted  only  of  daughters,  among  whom 
his  personal  property  would  be  divided  ;  while  his  whole 
landed  estate  would  descend,  with  the  title,  to  a  nephew. 


BLANCHE.  165 

A  second  spring  arrived.  To  London  they  went 
again.  Tlie  brilliancy  of  Lady  Blanche's  conjpjexion 
was  gone  ;  her  step  had  lost  its  elasticity,  her  figure 
something  of  its  roundness.  The  last  month  or  two 
had  been  to  her  a  period  of  much  uneasiness,  much  mor- 
tification. 

She  had  calculated  that  the  intelligence  of  her  marriage 
having  been  broken  off,  must  have  reached  De  Molton, 
and  bv  this  time  she  might  have  received  from  him  a 
passionate  expression  of  his  joy  and  his  devotion.  Day 
after  day  elapsed,  and  no  letter  arrived.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  whether,  suffering  the  pangs  of  (as  she  imagined) 
unrequited  affection,  she  might  not  have  found  a  remedy, 
as  it  were,  in  the  very  excess  of  the  disease,  had  not  a 
circumstance  occurred  which  again  excited  hope. 

Even  in  woman,  love  can  seldom  exist  if  completely 
deprived  of  aliment,  though  it  thrives  upon  the  very 
smallest  portion  of  sustenance  imaginable. 

Blanche  frequently  met  Lady  Cumberworth  and  her 
daughters  in  society  :  the  very  sight  of  De  Molton's 
mother  caused  a  tremor  and  an  agitation  which  roused 
her  from  the  state  of  apathy  into  which  she  had  fallen. 
Moreover,  she  often  perceived  Lady  Cumberworth's 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a  kind  and  motherly  expression  ; 
and  she  even  fancied  she  looked  as  if  she  longed  to  speak 
to  her,  although  they  had  never  been  regularly  intro- 
duced. Lady  Falkingham  watched  with  a  jealous  eye 
every  symptom  of  intercourse  with  Lady  Cumberworth ; 
and  if  they  found  themselves  within  speaking  distance 
of  De  Molton's  mother,  never  failed  to  move  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

One  morning  Lady  Falkingham  complained  of  a  cold, 
and  promulgated  at  breakfast  that  she  should  not  go  to 
Mrs.  Baltimore's  party  that  evening.  Now,  Mrs.  Balti- 
more was  a  relation  and  a  particular  friend  of  Lady  Cum- 
berworth's. Blanche  quickly  replied,  "  Oh,  do  not  run 
any  risk  on  my  account,  dear  mamma  !  You  know  Lady 
Westhope  can  chaperon  me." 

"Bless  me,  Blanche!"  exclaimed  her  father;  "you, 
wishing  to  go  out,  and  your  mother  to  stay  at  home  !     I 


166  BLANCHE. 

am  delighted  to  find  young  and  old  are  resuming  their 
natural  characteristics." 

"Really,  Blanche,"'  said  Lady  Falkingham,  I  think  you 
are  the  most  perverse  girl  I  ever  knew.  Every  evening 
I  am  obliged  to  urge  you  to  go  and  dress,  to  drive  you 
by  force  to  the  best  parties  in  London  ;  and  the  one  otily 
night  I  would  rather  stay  at  home,  you  are  seized  with 
such  a  fury  of  dissipation  that  you  wish  to  send  all  over 
the  town  to  find  a  chaperon  !  Nothi-ng  I  dislike  so  much 
as  that  a  girl  should  be  hawked  about  one  night  with  one 
person  and  the  next  night  with  another." 

"  But  surely,  mamma,  sending  to  Lady  Westhope  is 
not  sending-  all  over  the  town  ;  and  1  was  so  long  with 
her  at  Paris,  that  it  is  not  like  going  out  with  a  stranger." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  Paris,  Blanche,  if  you  wish  me 
to  be  able  to  eat  any  breakfast;  the  sample  she  gave  of 
her  chaperonage  there  is  not  calculated  to  make  me 
anxious  to  intrust  you  to  her  again  !" 

"  Really,  my  dear,  I  think  it  is  you  who  are  rather  per- 
verse ;  you  often  find  fault  with  Blanche  for  wishing  to 
shut  herself  up,  and  for  not  exerting  herself  to  recover 
her  spirits,  and  now  you  check  her  when  she  attempts  to 
do  what  you  so  often  urge.  I  have  some  business  with 
Lord  Westhope  this  morning,  and  if  I  find  Lady  West- 
hope  at  home,  I  cannot  see  any  objection  to  my  asking 
her  to  take  Blanche  to-night." 

Lady  Falkingham  could  say  no  more ;  she  could  not, 
before  Blanche,  explain  her  objections  to  Mrs.  Baltimore's 
party.  She  resolved,  however,  to  risk  a  fit  of  rheuma- 
tism rather  than  allow  her  daughter  to  elude  her  vigilant 
eye. 

Lord  Falkingham  quickly  settled  the  evening  arrange- 
ments with  Lady  Westhope,  and  as  quickly  took  his 
leave,  to  avoid  the  formality  of  a  wedding  visit  from  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wroxholme,  who  had  just  returned  from  pass- 
ing their  honeymoon  in  the  country. 

Lady  Westhope  was  exceedingly  surprised  to  find  Mrs. 
Wroxholme  small  and  slender,  whereas  she  herself  was 
tall,  and  was  altogether  a  fine  woman  rather  than  a  pretty 
one.     She  was  also  surprised  to  find  that  her  mouth  was 


BLANCHE.  167 

wide  (though  her  teeth  were  so  bright  and  her  smile  so 
sunny  lliat  no  one  who  spoke  to  her  would  be  disposed 
to  criticise  it  too  severely),  whereas  Lady  Westliope's 
was  peculiarly  small,  and  classical  in  its  form.  The 
setting  on  of  the  head  was  concealed  by  the  winter  ap- 
parel ;  and  Lady  Westhope  was  not  sufficiently  well 
acquainted  with  her  own  profile  to  be  struck  with  any 
resemblance  in  Mrs.  Wroxholme's.  She  scarcely  knew 
whether  or  not  to  be  flattered  at  Mr.  Wroxholme's  having 
fancied  a  likeness  where  so  little  existed  ;  and  yet  it 
proved  that  she  had  been  present  to  his  thoughts,  and 
that  he  could  not  admire  any  one  without  trying  to  dis- 
cover in  her  a  resemblance  to  the  person  he  had  fixed 
upon  as  the  type  of  female  perfection. 

Mr.  Wroxholme  looked  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 
Mrs.  AVroxholme  was  modest  without  being  awkward, 
and  did  not  seem  to  be  indisposed  towards  her  husband's 
friend,  as  is  so  frequently  the  case  when  the  husband  has 
injudiciously  praised,  or  the  woman  has  a  narrow  mind, 
or  a  jealous  disposition.  On  the  contrary,  she  seemed 
disposed  to  take  it  upon  trust,  that  the  person  of  whom 
her  husband  approved  must  be  deserving  of  esteem. 

Lady  Westhope  was  much  pleased  with  all  she  saw  of 
the  bride  in  this  morning  visit ;  and  she  was  gratified 
by  her  evident  inclination  to  like,  and  her  desire  to  be 
liked.  When  they  were  taking  leave,  she  took  an  op- 
portunity of  expressing  to  Mr.  Wroxholme,  how  much 
she  was  flattered  at  his  having  found  any  resemblance 
between  so  charming  a  person  as  his  young  wife  and 
herself  Mr.  Wroxholme  looked  surprised,  and  wholly 
unconscious  to  what  she  could  allude  ;  then  suddenly  re- 
collecting himself — "Oh  yes,  so  I  did  !  1  thought  Em- 
ma very  like  you  when  first  I  knew  her ;  but  I  have  not 
been  so  much  struck  with  the  likeness  of  late." 

The  truth  was,  that  since  he  had  become  so  exceed- 
ingly in  love  with  his  wife,  as  he  now  was,  he  had  utterly 
forgotten  what  had  at  first  been  to  him  her  greatest  at- 
traction. With  the  generality  of  men,  love,  when  once 
over,  leaves  not  a  trace  behind.  With  women,  on  the 
contrary,  a  person  whom  they  have  once  loved,  or  even 


168  BLANCHE. 

one  by  whom  they  once  believed  themselves  to  be  sin- 
cerely loved,  remains  to  them  an  object  of  interest, 
though  the  sentiment  itself  may  long  have  ceased  to 
exist. 

LadyWesthope  felt  almost  abashed  when  she  replied,  in 
an  explanatory  tone — "  I  should  not  have  had  the  vanity 
to  make  such  a  remark,  if,  in  announcing  your  mar- 
riage, you  had  not  yourself  mentioned  the  resemblance." 

Mrs.  Wroxholme,  who  caught  what  was  passing,  said 
with  such  an  air  of  honesty,  that  she  was  "  really  dis- 
tressed at  hearing  the  comparison  made,"  and  looked  as 
if  she  sincerely  thought  Lady  Vv'esthope  so  much  hand- 
somer than  herself,  that  Lady  Westhope  felt  gratitude 
towards  the  wife,  mixed  with  a  momentary  (it  was  but 
a  momentary)  emotion  of  pique  towards  the  husband. 

To  Lady  Falkingham's  infinite  annoyance,  her  cold 
increased  towards  the  evening — she  was  threatened 
with  the  toothache — the  night  was  extremely  cold ; 
she  could  not,  without  openly  saying  she  would  not 
trust  her  daughter  out  of  her  sight,  insist  upon  accom- 
panying her  to  Mrs.  Baltimore's  ;  neither  was  her  illness 
such  that  she  could  make  it  a  pretext  for  keeping  Blanche 
at  home. 

Meanwhile,  Blanche  looked  unusually  animated  at  din- 
ner, and  her  father  rejoiced  exultingly  to  see  her  dark 
hazel  eyes  sparkle  once  more  with  the  rich  lustre  which 
was  natural  to  them.  Lady  Falkingham,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  suffering,  and  uncomfortable,  botli  in  body  and 
mind.  Her  tone  was  querulous  ;  and  she  found  it  im- 
possible to  agree  either  with  her  husband  or  daughter 
upon  any  subject,  whether  of  literature,  society,  or  poli- 
tics. She  felt  provoked  and  oppressed  by  the  unac- 
countable spirits  of  both  father  and  daughter. 

Lord  Falkingham  had  been  trying  to  talk  his  wife  into 
good-humour,  and  nothing  daunted  by  the  ill  success 
which  had  as  yet  attended  his  efforts,  he  proceeded  :  "  I 
find  Mapleton  is  quite  sure  of  the  county  if  he  stands 
next  election." 

"  That  is  very  odd  !"  said  Lady  Falkingham  :  "  Mr. 


BLANCHE.  169 

Evans  told  me  that  IMr.  Talpoys  had  eight  hundred  votes 
to  spare." 

"  Well !  Mapleton  himself  told  me  he  had  more  than 
fifteen  hundred  to  spare." 

"  I  do  not  believe  Mr.  Mapleton  knows  any  thing  at 
all  about  the  matter.  He  believes  what  his  agents  tell 
him ;  and  they  wish  him  to  persist  in  his  opposition  to 
Mr.  Talpoys,  that  they  may  m&ke  their  own  perquisites." 

"  Mapleton  must  be  a  great  fool  if  he  is  so  taken  in." 

"  I  never  heard  he  was  clever,"  answered  Lady  Falk- 
ingham,  with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"  How  pretty  the  new  lamps  look  !"  remarked  Lady 
Blanche,  who  knew  that  her  father  had  a  regard  for  Mr. 
Mapleton,  and  did  not  like  to  hear  him  spoken  of  slight- 
ingly. "  I  think  they  give  a  most  agreeable,  soft  light, — 
do  not  you,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  I  agree  with  you,  my  dear.  To  my 
mind,  they  are  not  near  so  pretty  as  the  old  ones." 

Lord  Falkingham,  who  always  felt  a  vague  uneasiness 
whenever  he  saw  his  wife  look  out  of  spirits,  as  he 
amiably  termed  and  thought  what  others  might  have 
deemed  being  out  of  humour,  made  another  attempt  to 
say  something  agreeable. 

"  Is.  that  pretty  cap  the  handiwork  of  your  new  maid, 
my  dear?     If  it  is,  1  think  she  is  likely  to  suit  you." 

"  My  dear  Lord  [Falkingham,  you  mean  to  be  very 
complimentary,  I  dare  say  ;  but  it  would  be  infinitely 
more  complimentary  if  you  had  recognised  the  old 
friend  you  have  seen  me  wear  half  the  winter  at  Temple 
Loseley." 

This  was  another  failure ;  but  he  laughed  at  his  own 
mistake,  said  he  evidently  was  not  born  to  be  a  milliner, 
and  remarked  what  a  good  vol-au-i'ent  he  was  eating. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  it.  I  thought  it  very  bad,  I  must 
confess,  and  had  meant  to  speak  to  the  cook  about  it ; 
but  1  will  tell  him  you  approve." 

Lord  Falkingham  was  provoked  at  last.  He  piqued 
himself  upon  his  taste  in  gastronomy,  and  did  not  at  all 
like  any  one  presuming  to  have  a  more  refined  palate 
than  his  own.     Little  more  was  said. 

VOL.  II. — r 


170 


BLA?ICHE. 


Blanche  counted  the  moments  till  Lady  Westhope 
called  for  her,  with  something  of  the  same  eagerness  she 
would  have  done  had  it  been  De  Molion,  instead  of  De 
Molton's  mother,  whom  she  expected  to  meet. 

To  her  great  joy,  the  first  person  she  saw  on  entering 
the  room  was  Lady  Cumber  worth  ;  and  she  felt,  she 
knew  not  wherefore,  that  this  evening  was  big  with 
events  of  the  utmost  importance. 


CHAPTER  XL 

So,  bounding  o'er  the  billows,  ride  our  fleets, 
To  reach  the  land  that  owns  the  sacred  name 
Of  home ;  and  high  among  the  shrouds  Iirave  hearts 
Beat  towards  that  home  with  strong  tumultuous  joy. 

Unpublished  Poems. 

Lady  Blanche  and  Lady  Cumberworth  were  at 
opposite  ends  of  the  room.  I'liey  were  not  acquainted 
with  each  other.  Rubber  after  rubber  was  played  by 
the  elder  people  ;  some  of  the  younger  won  and  lost 
considerable  sums  at  ecarte.  The  evening  wore  away  ; 
Blanche's  high-wrought  expectations  seemed  likely  to 
end  in  nothing.  "  After  all,"  site  thought,  "  what  did 
I  expect  ?  What  was  to  happen  ?  How  foolish  I  have 
been  !  Lady  Cumberworth  does  not  even  turn  her 
head  my  way."  She  might  have  seen  that  a  very 
charming  young  man  vvas  in  deep  conversation  with 
the  fourth  Miss  De  Molton  ;  and  Lady  Cumberworth 
would  not  have  moved  an  inch,  or  even  looked  as  if 
she  could  ever  wish  to  move,  as  long  as  this  conversa- 
tion lasted.  When  the  charming  young  man  had, 
however,  taken  his  leave  to  grace  some  more  splen- 
did assembly  with  his  presence,  Lady  Cumberworth 
changed  her  position,  and  crossed  to  the  side  of  the 
room  where  Lady  Blanche  stood.      She  was  shghtly 


BLANCHE.  171 

acq\iainted  with  Lady  Westhope,  and  seated  herself  by 
her.  Blanche's  heart  beat  quick — something;  would 
surely  occur  now. 

Presently  Lady  Cumberworth  beo^ged  Lady  West- 
hope  to  introduce  her  to  her  cousin,  Lady  Blanche  ; 
which  commonplace  ceremony  was  performed  in  the 
most  commonplace  manner  :  but  Lady  Blanche's  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  and  she  blushed  to  her  very  temples. 
Lady  Cumberworth  saw  that  her  darlincr  son  was  as 
truly  loved  as  ever,  and  though  she  knew  it  would  be 
reckoned  imprudent,  she  could  not  help  ardently  wish- 
ing to  let  her  know  that  De  Molton  was  neither  faith- 
less nor  indifferent.  "  After  all,"  thought  she,  in  the 
good-natured  weakness  of  her  heart,  "  it  is  evident  they 
are  both  so  deeply  attached,  that  they  never  can  be 
happy  if  they  are  separated.  Lord  Falkingham  is  rich 
—  he  has  no  son  ;  if  he  chose  to  provide  for  Lady 
Blanche,  he  could  make  them  tolerably  comfortable, 
I  must  give  the  poor  girl  pleasure  by  letting  her  know 
what  are  Frank's  feelings  ;  and  then  he  will  be  so  very 
happy  if  I  tell  him  I  have  seen  his  Blanche,  and  that 
she  is  constant !"  She  took  the  opportunity  of  Lady 
Westhope's  changing  her  position  to  draw  nearer  to 
Lady  Blanche.  "  Now,"  thought  Blanche,  "  something 
is  coming;  Lady  Cumberworth  looks  as  if  she  did  not 
wish  my  cousin  to  hear." 

Lady  Cumberworth  asked  her  if  she  had  been  at 
the  last  ball  at  M.  House.  Lady  Blanche  answered, 
*'  Yes  ;"  and  felt  disappointed  at  so  unmeaning  a  ques- 
tion. 

Lady  Cumberworth  did  not  know  how  to  open  the 
subjpct.     "  Were  you  much  amused  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  No  !  I  did  not  think  it  was  very  gay,"  was  Blanche's 
reply. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  my  son  in  India  the  other  day," 
continued  Lady  Cumberworth,  while  Lady  Blanche's 
lieart  seemed  almost  to  stop  its  pulsations  from  excess 
of  emotion,  "and  he  tells  me  the  society  of  Calcutta 
is  very  dull.  He  is  gone  up  the  country  now  on  an  ex- 
pedition  against  some  native  chiefs." 


172  BLANCHE. 

Lady  Blanche  changed  colour,  and  her  eyes  turned 
fearfully  and  inquiringly  on  Lady  Cumberworth,  who 
proceeded — "  He  soothes  my  maternal  fears  by  telling 
me  that  it  is  not  a  service  of  much  danger  ;  but  he  adds, 
that  while  there  is  any  active  service  to  be  expected,  he 
cannot,  in  honour,  follow  his  own  inclination,  which 
would  be  to  return  to  England  instantly.  He  seems 
very  much  to  regret  having  gone  to  India  at  all." 

This  was  enough.  Hope  again  danced  in  the  heart 
of  Lady  Blanche  ;  l)ut  she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  from 
the  ground  :  she  did  not  utter — she  could  not  think  of 
any  thing  which  would  not  too  openly  commit  her  to  a 
person  who  was,  in  fact,  a  stranger.  But  Lady  Cum- 
berworth saw  enough  to  convince  her  that  Frank's  de- 
votion was  amply  requited,  and  she  absolutely  loved 
Lady  Blanche.  She  was  a  kind,  nay,  a  tender-hearted 
woman.  She  never  could  resist  doing  the  thing  which 
she  saw  wished  by  others,  and  many  a  lecture  had  she 
received  from  more  sage  and  worldly  matrons  for  allow- 
ing her  daughters  to  flirt  uselessly,  and  for  permitting 
herself  to  be  completely  managed  by  them  upon  most 
subjects.  Several  very  imprudent  marriages  had  been 
in  question  for  the  girls,  and  had  from  her  met  with 
little  discouragement.  Fortunately,  Lord  Cumber- 
worth's  heart  was  not  so  soft,  while  his  head  was  some- 
what harder. 

From  this  time,  whenever  Lady  Blanche  and  Lady 
Cumberworth  met,  a  few  words  of  cordial  recognition 
passed  between  them.  Lady  Falkingham,  to  avoid  the 
necessity  of  being  introduced,  was  either  affectedly  en- 
gaged in  earnest  conversation  with  some  one  else,  or 
statelily  reared  herself  to  her  full  height,  her  eyes  look- 
ing over,  or  beyond.  Lady  Cumberworth.  The  greet- 
ings, consequently,  became  each  evening-  shorter  and 
more  constrained  ;  but  still  they  were  sufScient  to  keep 
Blanche's  mind  engaged  with  the  idea  of  De  Molton. 

The  letter  which  his  mother  wrote  to  him  immedi- 
ately after  her  conversation  with  Lady  Blanche,  found 
him  one  sultry  day  lying  in  his  bungalow,  exhausted 
in  body  and  mind.    The  expedition  against  the  Pin- 


BLANCHE. 


173 


darries  was  over.  He  had  distinguished  himself  by 
his  eager  and  ardent  courage,  and  his  previous  study 
of  the  history  and  nature  of  the  country  had  enabled 
him  to  be  of  essential  service  to  his  commanding  officer. 
The  novelty  and  excitement  of  this  desultory  warfare 
had  assisted  to  divert  his  thoughts  from  dwelling  ex- 
clusively on  the  subject  of  his  unfortunate  attachment; 
but  that  excitement  was  over.  The  regiment  was  at 
present  established  in  bungalows,  near  the  borders  of 
the  British  possessions,  and  removed  to  a  great  distance 
from  any  European  society. 

The  weather  was  so  oppressively  hot,  that  except  for 
some  hours  about  sunrise,  and  for  a  few  more  in  the 
evening,  it  was  impossible  that  even  any  military  duty 
could  take  place. 

The  intervening  space  of  time  was  generally  passed 
by  the  officers  languidly  stretched  -on  mats,  and  gasping 
for  breath.  They  were  cut  off  from  all  communication 
with  any  of  their  countrymen,  and  the  unhealthiness  of 
the  climate  had  wofully  thinned  the  number  of  those 
who  had  originally  formed  their  small  society.  The  few 
books  possessed  by  the  party  had  been  read  and  re-read 
a  hundred  times.  An  occasional  tiger-hunt  before  day- 
break— the  exhilarating:  intelliofence  of  a  crocodile 
having  been  seen  on  the  bank  of  a  neighbouring  tank 
— the  punishment  of  some  native  discovered  in  one  of 
the  thefts  which  were  so  often  perpetrated  and  so  seldom 
detected — or  the  death  of  another  comrade, — were  the 
only  events  which  occurred  to  vary  the  monotony  of  De 
Molton's  existence. 

In  the  vacuity  of  such  a  life,  the  image  of  Blanche 
woLild  rise  before  his  mind,  more  beautiful,  more  fascina- 
ting than  ever;  and  he  would  pass  whole  hours  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  blinds  which  the  natives  were  con- 
stantly watering  to  preserve  some  freshness  in  the  at- 
mosphere, while  his  thoughts  wandered  far  away  from 
the  melancholy  and  uninteresting  sights  around  him,  to 
the  festive  and  brilliant  saloons  of  Paris,  or  to  the 
dimly  lighted  stairs  of  the  private  box  entrance  of  Gov- 
ern Garden,  or  to  the  long  dinner-table  at  Cransley, 

p2 


174  BLANCHE. 

with  the  epergne  and  its  projecting  flowers,  or,  dearer 
than  all,  to  the  library  where  he  last  beheld  her — where 
he  caught  the  expression  of  her  countenance  when  she 
said,  "And  do  you  then  love  me?" — to  the  library  where 
she  had  uttered  the  few  words  which  had  changed  the 
whole  tenor  of  both  their  fates — "  Why  did  you  not  tell 
me  this  sooner  7" 

He  was  feasting  his  nmemory  on  these  precious  recol- 
lections ;  he  was  wondering  whether  she  still  remem- 
bered him,  whether  he  should  ever  return  to  England, 
whether  he  should  find  her  free  from  any  other  engage- 
ment, whether  there  was  a  possibility  that  she  might 
ever  become  his,  or  whether  he  was  not  flattering  and 
deceiving  himself  in  attaching  so  much  importance  to 
these  few  words  ;  when  he  was  roused  from  his  reveries 
by  the  arrival  of  despatches  from  Calcutta  with  English 
letters,  and  his  eyes  were  greeted  by  the  sight  of  many  a 
well-known  handwriting. 

It  is  only  those  who  have  been  in  distant  lands,  far 
from  all  most  dear  to  them,  who  can  judge  of  the  mingled 
emotions  of  joy  and  fear  with  which  letters  from  home 
are  received  by  the  exile, — the  magic  contained  in  that 
word  Home  ! — the  thousand  tender,  delightful,  and  pain- 
ful feelings  that  crowd  upon  the  soul, — the  anxiety  with 
which  the  letters  are  hastily  examined  to  see  that  they 
are  not  sealed  with  black, — the  eagerness  with  which 
the  one  from  the  person  nearest  and  dearest  to  the  heart 
is  selected  from  all  the  rest, — the  sickening  agitation 
with  which  it  is  torn  open,  and  the  nervous  haste  with 
which  the  eye  glances  to  the  top  of  the  page  to  look  for 
the  accustomed  "  All  well,"  and  the  glow  of  delight  with 
which  the  comfortable  words  are  hailed  ! 

De  Molton  seized  ,  his  mother's  letter, — perused  the 
assurances  of  the  welfare  of  his  father,  his  brothers,  his 
sisters,  his  uncles,  his  aunts,  his  first  cousins,  and  his 
second  cousins !  Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory 
than  the  report  his  mother  gave  of  every  branch  of  the 
family,  and  yet  he  was  not  satisfied. 

At  length  came  the  postscript ;  and  there  he  found  the 
name  he  had  been  longing  to  see.     There  he  found  that 


BLANCHE.  175 

Blanche  was  still  free  and  unfettered,  that  Blanche  did 
not  enjoy  society,  that  Blanche  still  blushed  when  she 
heard  his  name. 

His  impatience  to  return  home  now  exceeded  all 
bounds.  Two  years  had  elapsed  since  he  left  England  ; 
there  seemed  little  chance  of  any  war  in  which  his  ser- 
vices would  be  useful  to  his' country,  or  in  which  he 
could  himself  acquire  fame. 

He' lost  no  time  in  negotiating  his  exchange  into  a 
regiment  which  was  shortly  to  sail  for  his  native  lan^l ; 
and  towards  the  end  of  the  third  spring  from  the  time  of 
his  departure,  he  once  more  set  foot  on  English  ground, 
and  hastened  to  his  father's  house,  with  all  the  trepida- 
tion and  anxiety  experienced  by  any  one  who  arrives  at 
a  home  from  which  the  last  intelligence  is  nearly  a  year 
old. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Love  mocks  all  sorrows  but  his  own. 
And  (lamps  each  joy  he  does  not  yield. 

Unpublished  Poems. 

Dk  Molton  had  the  happiness  of  finding  no  chasm  in 
the  dear  and  well-known  family  circle.  He  could  look 
round  and  meet  the  beaming,  tearful,  tender  glance  of 
his  doting  mother,  the  gay  but  kindly  smile  of  his  father, 
the  affectionate  countenances  of  his  sisters ;  and  he  felt 
that  the  joy  of  reunion  almost  compensates  for  the  pain 
of  separation,  when  the  return  is  not  imbittered  by  the 
absence  of  any  familiar  face. 

Three  years,  however,  had  worked  some  changes  in 
those  around  him.  His  mother  was  thinner,  her  eyes 
were  dimmer,  her  nose  appeared  sharper,  and  she  was 
altogether  a  smaller  person  than  he  had  left  her.  His 
father  was  fatter,  and  his  head  more  bald.  His  elder 
sister  iiad  acquired  an  air  which  bespoke  the  spinster  of 


176  BLANCHE. 

a  certain  age.  His  youngest  sister  was  wonderfully 
improved  :  but  it  was  Charlotte,  the  fourth,  in  whom  he 
perceived  the  greatest  alteration. 

The  very  charming  young  man  whose  conversation 
Lady  Cumberworth  had  been  so  unwilling  to  interrupt, 
had  at  length  made  his  proposals  ;  and  Charlotte,  whom 
her  brother  Frank  remembered  pale,  and  thin,  and  shy, 
and  dull,  was  grown  rosy  and  blooming,  with  a  peculiarly 
expressive  countenance,  and  singularly  speaking  eyes. 

The  moment  De  Molton  could  draw  his  mother  aside, 
he  questioned  her  concerning  Lady  Blanche  ;  and  from 
her  he  learned  that  the  Falkinghams  were  still  in  Lon- 
don, that  Lady  Blanche  was  still  unmarried,  and  that 
she  was  supposed  to  have  lately  refused  a  most  excel- 
lent and  worthy  man. 

De  Molton's  heart  throbbed  with  joy  which  he  did  not 
attempt  to  conceal  from  his  mother ;  but  the  very  hope 
to  which,  in  her  tenderness,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
resist  ministering,  alarmed  her,  now  she  witnessed  its 
excess,  and  she  began  to  remind  her  son  how  impossible 
it  was  that  he  should  ever  marry  Lady  Blanche,  how 
improbable  that  the  Falkinghams  should  ever  consent  to 
such  a  union,  and,  even  should  they  not  oppose  it  as 
strenuously  as  she  anticipated,  how  impossible  it  was 
that  he  should  by  any  means  muster  an  income  sufficient 
to  provide  against  real,  actual  poverty. 

But  Lady  Cumberworth's  prudential  reasonings  came 
too  late.  Her  son  had  made  up  his  mind  that  honour 
and  gratitude  now  demanded  the  same  line  of  conduct 
as  that  prompted  by  inclination,  and  he  resolved  if,  upon 
the  first  interview  which  he  could  obtain  with  Lady 
Blanche,  he  had  reason  to  believe  he  still  held  the  same 
place  in  her  affections,  that  he  would  brave  all  the  frowns 
of  fortune,  and  gladly,  gayly,  gallantly  encounter  any 
degree  of  poverty,  provided  she  were  willing  to  share  it 
with  him :  if  she  were  not  willing  to  do  so,  she  could  but 
refuse  him. 

In  vain  did  I^ady  Cumberworth  use  every  argument 
she  might  have  recollected  before  she  imprudently  re- 
vived the  hopes  he  had  been  attempting  to  crush.     De 


BLANCHE.  177 

Molton,  when  once  he  had  taken  a  resolution,  was  im- 
moveable :  and  his  mother,  although  frightened  at  what 
she  had  assisted  to  bring  about,  could  not  help  loving 
him  the  better  for  his  ardour,  and  her  heart  went  with 
him,  while  she  dreaded  the  reproaches  of  others  for 
having  fomented  what  she  ought  to  have  repressed. 

De  Molton  left  a  card  at  Lord  Falkingham's  the  day 
after  his  arrival.  On  returning  from  the  morning  drive, 
Blanche  found  it  upon  the  table,  and  she  could  not  en- 
tirely check  a  faint  exclamation.  Her  mother  looked  at 
her  with  a  stern  and  reproachful,  but  melancholy  glance, 
which  suddenly  drove  back  the  colour  already  mounting 
to  her  cheeks.  She  felt  ready  to  faint;  but  she  was 
ashamed  to  show  such  emotion  before  one  whose  feel- 
ings were  so  little  in  unison  with  her  own,  and  by  a 
strong  eflbrt  she  mastered  herself  She  would  have 
given  the  world  had  Lady  Falkingham  spoken,  even  to 
reproach  her.  This  chilling  silence  was  more  awful, 
more  subduing,  than  any  words  which  could  be  uttered. 

She  gladly  seized  the  first  excuse  to  retire  to  her  own 
room,  and  there  to  enjoy  the  delight  of  finding  that  her 
lover  was  in  England,  safe,  and  faithful ; — for  she  felt 
convinced  he  was  faithful.  She  had  seen  Lady  Cumber- 
worth  only  two  days  before.  He  was  not  then  arrived. 
His  calling  the  very  day  after  his  return,  before  he  had 
any  printed  cards  (for  his  name  was  only  written,  and, 
as  she  thought,  written  with  an  unsteady  hand),  spoke 
volumes  to  her  hopeful  heart. 

They  dined  out  on  that  day ;  and,  after  their  dinner, 
were  to  proceed  to  a  party  at  which  Blanche  thought  it 
possible  she  might  meet  the  Cumberworths,  and,  conse- 
quently, De  Molton. 

If  Lady  Blanche's  reputation  for  good  manners  had 
depended  upon  her  conduct  on  that  memorable  day,  she 
would  certainly  have  been  reckoned  the  least  well-bred 
young  lady  who  ever  sat  at  "  good  men's  feasts."  Three 
times  did  tlie  master  oi'  the  house  ask  her  to  drink  wine 
before  she  took  any  notice  whatever  of  his  request,  and 
then  she  answered,  "  Mutton,  if  you  please."  The  ser- 
vants were  repeatedly  obliged  to  touch  her  sleeve  with 


178  BLANCHE. 

the  silver  dishes  containing  the  entrees,  before  they  could 
induce  her  to  turn  round  ;  and  her  next  neighbour  gave 
up  the  point  of  leading  her  into  anything  like  connected 
conversation  ;  not,  however,  till  he  had  made  many  fruit- 
less attempts  to  do  so ;  for  there  was  an  animation  in  her 
countenance,  there  was  a  fire  in  her  eye,  and  a  blushing 
consciousness  pervading  her  whole  demeanour,  which 
convinced  him  it  was  not  because  she  was  either  dull,  or 
shy,  or  stupid,  that  it  was  impossible  to  excite  or  to 
interest  her. 

It  was  with  infinite  vexation  that  Lady  Falkingham 
remarked  all  these  symptoms.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
during  their  drive  from  the  dinner  to  the  party.  She 
knew  Blanche's  frank  nature,  and  she  knew,  if  once  the 
ice  was  broken,  she  would  speak  boldly  and  strongly  all 
that  Lady  Falkingham  least  washed  to  hear. 

When  they  entered  the  assembly,  the  room  was  not 
full,  and  Blanche  at  once  saw  that  none  of  the  Cumber- 
worth  family  were  there.  Though  she  ardently  desired 
to  see  De  Molton,  yet  she  almost  dreaded  it.  So  many 
eyes  would  be  upon  her,  that  she  would  willingly  have 
postponed  the  long  wished  for  moment  of  meeting. 

The  rooms  began  to  fill.  She  fancied  a  likeness  in  the 
hair  of  this  man,  in  the  forehead  of  another :  but  no  ; 
when  the  crowd  allowed  her  to  see  the  rest  of  the  face, 
it  vp-as  not  De  Molton. 

At  length  the  door  opened  wide,  and  she  heard  an- 
nounced, in  a  loud  voice, "  Lady  Cumberworth,the  Misses 
De  Molton  and  Captain  De  Molton." 

Every  thing  swam  before  her  eyes :  she  could  scarcely 
distinguish  Lady  Cumberworth's  delicate  and  fragile, 
though  faded  beauty,  as  she  entered  the  apartment,  fol- 
lowed by  three  fine  handsome  girls,  all  taller  and  larger 
than  their  mother.  Behind  them  all,  she  at  length  per- 
ceived the  stately  figure  of  De  Molton  ;  his  faced  bronzed, 
— yes,  and  oldened  too, — but  there  was  the  same  look  of 
feeling  and  of  dignity,  although  he  seemed  to  wish  to 
glide  unperceived  into  the  room  till  his  eager  and  inquir- 
ing glance  had  ascertained  whether  his  long-loved  Lady 
Blanche  was  present. 


BLANCHE.  179 

Their  eyes  met,  and  as  instantly  fell ;  but  that  one 
glance  revealed  to  each  that,  although  so  long  separated, 
time  had  worked  no  change  in  their  feelings.  In  one 
second  he  was  by  her  side — the  crowd  had  again  closed 
in — Lady  Blanche  was  seated,  while  most  of  those  around 
were  standing;  and  their  meeting  was  more  private  than 
in  many  a  less  crowded  apartment. 

But  Lady  Falkingham  was  by  her  daughter's  side  ; 
both  felt  her  cold  and  searching  eyes  upon  them,  and 
both  were  unable  to  utter.  Lady  Falkingham,  after  a 
somewhat  lofty  recognition  of  De  Molton,  made  neither 
sign  nor  m.ovement  which  could  encourage  him  to  seat 
himself;  and  he  stood  before  them,  growing  every  mo- 
ment more  and  more  shy,  and  feeling  himsell  more  incon- 
veniently tall  than  ever  he  did  before. 

Blanche,  in  a  trembling  voice,  had  asked  him  when  he 
landed,  and  inquired  whether  his  voyage  had  been  pros- 
perous, to  which  questions  he  had  made  some  indistinct 
answers  ;  when  Lady  Falkingham's  attention  being  for  a 
moment  withdrawn  by  some  one  on  the  other  side,  he 
asked,  in  a  low  voice,  whether  he  should  find  Lady 
Blanche  at  home  the  next  morning.  She  answered 
"  She  hoped  so." 

"  I  must  see  you,"  he  added  ;  "  but  not  here, — not 
thus  !"  Lady  Falkingham  turned  round,  and  he  hurried 
away,  leaving  Blanche  in  a  confused  state  of  perfect  hap- 
piness. 

He  mingled  among  the  crowd,  and  was  soon  over- 
powered with  greetings  from  numerous  old  acquaint- 
ances, and  friendly  congratulations  upon  his  safe  return  ; 
but  Lady  Blanche  was  aware  that  his  eye  still  turned 
towards  her,  and  that  she  was  still  in  his  thoughts. 

She  was  romantic  ;  her  heart  was  formed  for  love  ; 
while  for  nearly  three  years,  her  taste  fjr  the  romantic, 
and  the  warmth  of  her  attachment,  had  been  nearly  de- 
prived of  aliment.  Since  her  last  definitive  conversa- 
tion with  Lord  Glenrith,  she  had  had  no  delicate  distresses, 
no  interesting  persecutions,  no  occurrences  of  any  kind. 
This  very  blank  had,  to  a  person  of  her  disposition,  been 
a  greater  trial  than  any  more  active  trial  would  have 


180  BLANCHE. 

been.  Perhaps  it  was  one  which  her  constancy  might 
not  have  stood,  if  her  rejection  of  Lord  Glenrith  had  not 
caused  her  pride,  as  well  as  her  leehngs,  to  be  engaged 
in  preserving  an  undeviating  fidehty  to  her  absent  lover. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  pleasure  of  again  knowing  herself 
beloved,  of  again  meeting  eyes  which  beamed  softly  upon 
hers,  of  being  once  more  engaged  in  all  the  pleasing 
agitations  of  a  love-affair,  was  inexpressibly  delightful. 

De  Molton,  on  his  part,  returned  home  intoxicated 
with  the  rapturous  conviction  that  the  beautiful,  the  ad- 
mired Lady  Blanche  had  for  his  sake  rejected  many  of 
the  best  matches  in  England  ;  that  among  all  the  tempt- 
ation of  the  London  world,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  oppo- 
sition of  her  parents,  she  had  enshrined  his  image  in  her 
heart  of  hearts.  The  result  was,  that  they  were  both 
desperately  in  love  ;  and  they  both  wondered  how  they 
had  endured  existence  during  their  long  and  hopeless 
separation. 

The  next  morning,  De  JMolton  called  at  an  unusually 
early  hour;  but  Lady  Falkingham,  as  a  measure  of  pre- 
caution, had  ordered  the  servants  to  say — '  not  at  home,' 
and  he  was  refused  admittance.  He  bit  his  lips,  and  re- 
tired from  the  door  with  a  flushed  brow,  but  a  more 
lofty  bearing  even  than  usual.  He  returned  home  to  in- 
dite a  long  and  passionate  epistle  to  Lady  Blanche — as 
passionate  as  might  be  expected  from  a  man  who  had 
loved  long,  fervently,  and  hopelessly;  who  felt  himself 
presumptuous  in  oftering  himself,  yet  was  conscious  that 
his  eftusions  would  not  meet  a  cold  and  disdainful  eye, 
but  that  they  were  addressed  to  one  who  fully  returned 
his  affection. 

At  the  same  time,  he  wrote  to  Lord  Falkingham,  giv- 
ing a  true  and  undisguised  account  of  his  present  situa- 
tion and  of  his  future  prospects  ;  both  of  which  were,  it 
must  be  confessed,  as  unpromising  as  can  well  be  ima- 
gined. Yet,  while  he  honestly  detailed  his  own  un- 
vvorthiness  to  match  with  such  a  person  as  Lady  Blanche, 
there  was  a  proud  humility  pervading  every  line  he  wrote, 
which  proved  that,  although  on  the  score  of  fortune  he 
owned  himself  her  inferior,  he  felt  conscious  of  being  an 


BLANCHE.  181 

honourable  and  high-minded  man,  her  equal  in  birth  and 
situation,  and  one  who  would  not  brook  being  treated 
with  any  want  of  consideration  or  respect. 

Blanche  received  his  letter  WMth  unalloyed  delight. 
She  read  over  and  over  again  the  glowing  expressions  of 
devotion  it  contained,  and  resolved  that  nothing  short  of 
the  positive  commands  of  both  parents  should  prevent 
her  returning  such  an  answer  as  might  reward  Do  Molton 
for  all  he  had  suffered  on  her  account. 

With  his  letter  in  her  hand,  she  hastened  to  her  father's 
study,  in  order  to  open  the  subject  to  him  before  her 
mother  had  had  an  opportunity  of  influencing  him  against 
her  wishes. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  I  have  had  a  letter  !" 

"  So  have  I,  my  dear  !"  answered  Lord  Falkingham, 
who  was  sitting  in  his  leathern  armchair,  one  foot  on  the 
fender,  the  other  on  a  bar  of  the  grate,  with  one  hand 
holding  the  open  letter,  with  the  other  stroking  his  eye- 
brows, as  he  often  did  when  thinking  deeply  and  un- 
pleasantly. 

"  Pa{)a,  mine  is  from  Captain  Be  Molton,"  and  she 
coloured  a  little, — but  it  was  only  a  little ;  for  she  was 
resolved,  and  not  trembling.  She  knew  her  father  was 
aware  of  her  attachment ;  and  she  did  not  experience 
the  confusion  attendant  on  the  first  confession  of  a  bud- 
ding preference. 

"  So  is  mine,"  rejoined  Lord  Falkingham,  "  and  very 
distressing  it  is.  Take  it  and  read  it,  my  dear  Blanche, 
and  you  will  perceive  that,  knowing  as  I  do  how  com- 
pletely you  return  Captain  De  Molton's  affection,  it  is  a 
communication  which  must  exceedingly  distress  a  father's 
feelings !" 

Blanche's  countenance  fell :  she  seized  the  letter ;  she 
fancied  there  must  be  some  difficulty,  some  objection  on 
his  part,  to  which  he  had  not  alluded  in  his  letter  to  her, 
and  she  devoured  each  line  with  her  eyes,  dwelling  with 
delight  upon  the  expressions  of  devotion  to  herself,  on 
the  impossibility  he  had  experienced  to  drive  her  from 
his  mind  ;  she  admired  the  noble  pride  which  pervaded 
the  whole  ;  she  fully  appreciated  the  candour  with  which 

VOL.    IL — Q 


182  BLANCHE. 

he  entered  upon  the  subject  of  his  poverty  ;  and  quickly 
glancing  over  the  sums  specified  as  his  younger  brother's 
fortune,  the  amount  of  his  pay,  &c.,  as  topics  in  which 
she  had  no  interest,  and  which  weie  "  papa's  aftair,"  she 
returned  the  letter  to  her  father  with  a  pleased  and  ani- 
mated countenance.  "  What  a  beautiful  letter,  papa  ! 
There  is  nobody  the  least  like  him  :  nobody  so  noble,  so 
true,  so  constajit!''  and  she  clasped  her  hands  earnestly; 
"and  I  know,  papa,  you  value  such  qualities  a  thousand 
times  more  than  riches  1"' 

"  Yes,  my  child,  more  than  riches  ;  but  they  will  not 
do  instead  of  a  competency.  You  have  been  brought  up 
in  luxury,  and  you  are  very  little  calculated  to  make  a 
poor  man's  wife." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  you  know  that  Lord  Glenrith's  splendour 
did  not  gratify  me  the  least.  You  know  how  inditierent 
I  was  to  the  diamonds ;  that  I  never  felt  the  least  wish 
for  his  wife's  beautiful  trousseau,  which  all  the  world  was 
admiring ;  nor  for  the  long-tailed  roan  horses ;  nor  for 
any  thing  of  the  sort.  I  could  be  happy  without  those 
things ;  but,  papa,  I  could  not — no,  I  coukl  not  live  with 
a  husband  I  did  not  love :"  she  spoke  with  strong  emo- 
tion :  "  and  I  never  shall  love  any  one  except  Captain  Do 
Molton.  So,  if  you  forbid  me  to  think  of  him,  you  may 
rest  assured  I  shall  never  marry  as  long  as  I  live.  I  have 
proved  this  is  not  a  girlish  fancy.  It  may  be  a  first  love  ; 
but  it  is  not  the  contemptible  first  love  of  every  young 
lady  which  you  and  mamma  despise  so  much." 

"  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  !"  exclaimed  Lord  Falk- 
ingham.  "  Blanche,  you  make  me  very  unhappy,  for  I 
see  nothing  before  you  but  a  choice  of  evils ;  no  happi- 
ness, or  much  unhaj)piness." 

"  No,  papa  !  not  unhappiness.  People  cannot  be  un- 
happy when  they  are  truly  attached,  and  when  they  are 
together.  And  indeed  ours  is  a  true  attachment.  It  has 
stood  the  test  of  time  and  absence.  It  has  conquered  all 
difficulties.  If  it  was  tiie  passing  fancy  people  can  be 
laughed  out  of,  I  should  have  been  cured  long  ago.  If  I 
could  not  forget  Captain  De  Molton  when  I  was  uncer- 
tain whether  he  remembered  me  or  not,  shall  I  forget  him 


BLANCHE.  183 

now,  when  I  find  that,  among  strangers,  in  foreign  lands, 
in  another  hemisphere,  he  lias  thought  of  me,  and  me 
only;  when,  added  to  my  admiration  of  his  character,  I 
must  feel  gratitude  for  his  constancy." 

"  This  is  very  perplexing,"  rejoined  Lord  Falkingham  ; 
"I  wish  the  fellow  was  not  so  very  poor.  He  is  an 
honest,  straightforward  gentleman,  though:  he  has  no 
humbug  about  him :  he  does  not  tiy  to  make  the  best  of 
himself." 

Blanche  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  looked  up  at 
her  father  with  such  a  proud  exulting  tenderness  at  hear- 
ing him  speak  in  these  terms  of  De  Molton,  that  his  heart 
was  touched,  and  kissing  her  forehead,  he  said,  "  Well, 
my  child,  1  will  do  my  best.  If  he  can  get  his  father  to 
assist  him,  and  if  we  can  make  up  any  thing  like  an 
income — " 

"  Remember,  I  despise  riches,  dear  papa  ;  I  hate  the 
very  name  of  money." 

"  Yes,  my  love,  yes ;  and  so  do  a  great  many  other 
people,  who  want  the  things  which  cannot  be  got  without 
money,  as  much  as  their  neighbours  do.  Well !  I  will 
see  De  Molton  ;  1  will  talk  to  him." 

At  this  moment  Lady  Falkingham  entered.  Blanche 
felt  a  little  alarmed  at  having  first  flown  to  her  father  in 
the  tumult  of  her  joy  ;  but  still  she  was  glad  her  father 
was  not  to  receive  his  first  impressions  upon  the  subject 
from  her  mother.  Lady  Falkingham  looked  surprised  at 
finding  father  and  daughter  together,  with  evident  traces 
of  agitation  visible  on  both  tlieir  countenances.  Lord 
Falkingham  began: — 

"  My  dear,  1  have  just  received  this  letter,  and  I 
have  been  talking  to  Blanche  very  seriously  upon  the 
subject." 

l^ady  Blanche  was  grateful  to  her  father  for  so  word- 
ing his  sentence  that  it  might  almost  seem  as  if  lie  had 
sent  for  her;  for  she  now  felt  that  Lady  Falkingham 
might  be  huit,  and  perhaps  with  some  reason,  at  her  first 
impulse  having  brought  her  to  her  liitlier,  rather  than  to 
her  mother,  upon  such  an  occasion.  Lord  I'alkingham 
dwelt  upon  the  serious  manner  in  which  he  had  spoken 


184  BLANCHE. 

to  his  daughter ;  for  he  knew  liis  wife  would  disapprove 
of  his  having  allowed  her  to  hope  there  was  any  chance 
of  his  ultimate  approbation. 

Lady  Falkingham  took  the  letter,  and  after  having 
perused  its  contents  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  she 
returned  it,  merely  sayi'ig — 

"  I  think  Captain  De  Molton  is  as  presumptuous  a 
young  man  as  1  ever  heard  of  He  cannot  surely  expect 
that  Lady  Blanche  De  Vaux  is  to  follow  him  in  the  bag- 
gage-wagon." 

The  colour  forsook  Blanche's  cheek,  but  the  next  mo- 
ment it  rushed  again  to  her  face  ;  and  her  eyes  flashed  at 
hearing  De  Molton  thus  spoken  of.  The  few  words  her 
father  had  said  in  approbation  of  his  conduct,  had  jus- 
tified and  sanctioned  to  her  own  mind  her  resolution  to 
abide  by  him  through  all  opposition.  Her  father  thought 
him  noble  in  soul,  and  worthy  in  character ;  he  found  no 
objection  to  him  but  the  want  of  contemptible  wordly 
advantages,  and  she  felt  it  was  both  generous  and  con- 
sistent to  persevere  in  her  devotion. 

Lord  Falkingham  having  once  said  he  admired  the 
manly  candour  of  De  Molton's  letter,  was  not  disposed  to 
agree  with  his  wife  ;  and  the  severity  of  her  remark  made 
him  adopt  the  side  of  the  lovers  more  decidedly  than 
he  might  otherwise  have  done.  "  Nay,  my  dear,"  he 
answered,  "  there  is  nothing  presumptuous  in  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  offers  himself.  He  speaks  most  humbly 
of  his  own  situation." 

"It  is  the  pride  that  apes  humility.  The  very  fact  of 
proposing,  is  presumption  in  itself" 

"It  might  be,  if  he  did  not  know  that  Blanche  was  in 
love  with  him  ;  but  as  he  cannot  doubt  that  fact,  I  must 
say  I  think  the  young  man  has  acted  very  properly  in 
offering  himself  We  should  think  him  cold  and  calcula- 
ting if  he  did  otherwise." 

"  Certainly,  if  a  girl  throws  herself  at  a  man's  head, 
proclaiming  her  attachment  to  the  sound  of  the  trumpet, 
and  making  her  belle  passion  the  talk  of  the  town,  it  alters 
the  case.  I  once  thought  it  impossible  that  a  daughter 
of  mine  should  ever  so  degrade  herself.  But  Blanche  has 
long  been  beyond  my  cotitroL" 


BLANCHE.  185 

Blanche  was  so  indignant  for  De  Molton,  that,  although 
deeply  hurt  at  what  her  mother  said,  she  was  not  soft- 
ened, and  did  not  weep,  as  she  otherwise  would  have 
done.  She  had  always  fancied  that  if  Lady  Falkingham 
had  known  more  of  De  Molton,  she  would  have  per- 
ceived his  superiority  to  the  rest  of  mankind  ;  that,  like 
Lady  Westhope,  she  would  have  admitted  that  he  was 
formed  to  captivate  the  heart  of  woman,  even  while  she 
condemned  the  marriage  as  imprudent :  but  now  that  her 
mother  had  read  this  touching  and  manly  effusion,  this 
epistle  breathing  the  very  soul  of  honour  and  of  loyalty 
to  the  lady  of  his  love,  she  was  indeed  astonished,  disap- 
pointed, and  mortified,  at  finding  her  still  unmoved  ;  and, 
for  a  time,  her  heart  shut  itself  up  from  one  parent,  while 
it  opened  to  the  other. 

"  I  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do,"  resumed  Lord 
Falkingham,  "  is  to  have  some  conversation  with  Lord 
Cumbervvorth,  and  see  whether  it  is  possible  to  arrange 
any  thing." 

"  It  is  utterly  impossible  Lord  Cumberworth  can  ever 
make  Captain  De  Molton  a  fit  match  for  Blanche." 

"But  the  girl  says  she  can  never  marry  anybody  she 
does  not  love,  and  that  she  can  never  love  anybody 
except  Captain  De  Molton." 

"  She  has  never  tried,"  rejoined  Lady  Falkingham  : 
"  from  the  moment  she  so  foolishly  rejected  I^ord  Glen- 
rith,  she  has  wilfully  fostered  her  silly  predilection  for  this 
interesting  penniless  captain,  though  she  has  seen  how 
miserable  her  infatuation  has  made  me.  If  she  had  not 
nurtured  it  by  every  means  in  her  power,  it  would  have 
died  away  like  other  young  ladies'  first  loves." 

There  was  a  contemptuous  expression  thrown  into  these 
last  words,  which  roused  all  the  heroine  in  Blanche. 

"  Mamma,"  she  said, "  I  am  very  sorry  I  have  made  you 
unhappy ;  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  given  my  father  any 
uneasiness,  but  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  command  my 
feelings.  I  can  tell  Captain  De  Molton  that  I  will  never 
marry  him  without  your  consent ;  but  I  can  never  cease 
to  love  him,  nor  can  1  ever  love  another.  How  can  you 
say  I  have  not  tried  to  please  you,  and  to  obey  you  !    Did 

q2 


186  BLANCHE. 

I  not  accept  Lord  Glenrith,  and  have  I  ever  ceased  t<? 
repent  having  done  so  ?  If  you  command  it,  I  will  now 
refuse  Captain  De  Molton ;  but  when  I  do  so,  I  cannot 
attempt  to  conceal  from  him  that  my  affections  are 
wholly  his ;  that  they  have  been  his  during  three  years 
of  absence,  and  that  they  will  be  his  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  that  you  will  not  manage  Blanche 
in  this  way.  The  truth  is,  the  girl  is  desperately  in  love, 
and  we  must  try  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

Blanche  was  glad  that  her  father  at  length  treated  her 
attachment  with  some  respect,  but  she  would  greatly 
have  preferred  the  phrase  'irrevocably  attached,'  to 
'  desperately  in  love.' 

"Indeed,  Lord  Falkingham,  if  you  encourage  your 
daughter  in  these  highflown  notions,  there  is  no  use  in 
my  interfering,  and  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  seeing 
her  a  beggar,  and  an  unhappy  beggar ;  for  Blanche  is 
not  formed  to  struggle  w' ith  poverty ;  she  has  been  ac- 
customed to  every  indulgence  ;  every  wish,  every  fancy 
has  hitherto  been  gratified.  No  young  lady  thinks  it 
more  indispensable  to  be  perfectly  well  dressed,  no  one 
is  more  alive  to  any  want  of  refinement  in  those  with 
whom  she  lives.  I  know  my  own  child  ;  she  will  never 
be  happy  in  the  style,  and  among  the  associates  to  whom 
she  wilfully  dooms  herself." 

Lady  Falkingham  wept,  but  her  tears  were  not  all 
tenderness ;  some  anger  and  mortification  were  mixed 
with  the  feeling  which  prompted  them  to  flow. 

Blanche  felt  all  this,  without  knowing  that  she  felt  it, 
and  was  somewhat  shocked  at  her  own  want  of  filial 
piety  in  not  being  more  touched  by  the  tears  her  mother 
shed  over  her. 

This  most  unpleasant  family  colloquy  ended  by  Lord 
Falkingham'-s  writing  to  Lord  Cumberworth  to  request 
an  interview,  and  by  the  mother  and  daughter  returning 
to  the  drawing-room,  with  less  cordiality  between  them 
than  is  usual  in  modern  days,  when  mothers  are  oftener 
over  indulgent  than  over  severe. 


BLANCHE.  187 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Je  (lemeurai  6toardie,  muette,  et  confuse  ;  ce  qui  etait  signe  que 
j'etais  charmee. — Marivaux. 

Blanche's  life  had  not  of  late  been  a  happy  one,  and 
in  addition  to  the  natural  wish  of  being  umted  to  the 
object  of  her  love,  she  experienced  considerable  anxiety 
to  change  her  present  mode  of  existence  ;  and  having 
candidly  avowed  to  her  parents  that  she  would  not  at- 
tempt to  conceal  the  state  of  her  affections  from  De 
Molton,  and  having  received  from  them  no  prohibition 
to  answer  his  letter,  she  retired  to  her  own  room  to 
indite  a  suitable  reply. 

She  longed  to  be  alone,  and  at  length  to  communi- 
cate freely  with  the  person  who  had  so  long  been  mas- 
ter of  her  affections.  She  spread  the  paper  before  her, 
she  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink  ;  and  when  she  had  thus 
prepared  herself,  she  found  herself  totally  at  a  loss 
what  to  say.  She  was  going  to  write  a  love-letter  : 
how  ought  she  to  begin  ?  She  had  written,  "  Dear 
Captain  De  Molton  :"  she  thought  it  looked  very  com- 
monplace and  cold ;  and  she  did  not  know  how  to 
proceed.  It  was  true  they  had  been  long  and  faithfully 
attached,  but  they  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other. 
Not  more  than  half  a  dozen  words  of  love  had  ever 
passed  between  them,  and  those  had  passed  three  years 
before,  so  that  there  were  no  habits  of  intimacy ;  and 
now  it  came  to  the  point,  she  felt  inexpressibly  shy  at 
the  thought  of  confessing  her  love  in  words  addressed 
to  the  object  of  it. 

If  a  man  is  doubtful  of  the  success  of  his  suit,  he 
should  never  propose  by  letter.  It  is  very  easy  to  write 
the  kindest,  the  civilest,  the  prettiest  refusal  in  the 
world  ;  whereas  a  gentle  and  good-natured,  or  a  timid 


18S  BLANCHE. 

person,  finds  it  always  difficult  to  utter  in  plain  distinct 
words,  to  a  man's  face,  "I  do  not  like  you;  you  are 
disagreeable  to  me."  The  hesitation  produced  by  the 
difficulty  of  couching  such  sentiments  in  pretty  lan- 
guage may  be  construed  into  encouragement :  silence 
is  proverbially  consent ;  and  a  woman  may  easily  be- 
come entangled,  in  cases  where  tj^e  feeling  on  her  part 
does  not  amount  to  positive  dislike. 

Blanche's  epistle  would,  to  the  eyes  of  the  indifferent, 
have  appeared  a  very  stupid,  ill-written  letter.  It  was 
formal  at  first :  as  it  proceeded  it  almost  too  plainly  ex- 
pressed the  warmth  of  her  attachment ;  she  then  pro- 
fessed her  determination  to  abide  by  the  decision  of  her 
parents.  In  short  it  was  not  consistent — it  was  not  in 
keeping  ;  but  De  Molton  thought  it  perfect.  He  per- 
ceived ardent  feelings  struggling  with  maiden  modesty 
and  filial  obedience,  and  he  thought  the  eloquence  dis- 
played in  it  mis^ht  render  it  worthy  a  place  among  the 
etiusions  of  a  Sapplio  or  a  Heloise. 

The  next  morning  Lord  Cumberworth  waited  upon 
Lord  Falkingham.  He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  the 
marriage,  for  he  feared  he  should  be  expected  to  make 
some  sacrifices  for  his  sou's  happiness,  and  he  was  not 
a  man  who  was  fond  of  making  sacrifices.  He  had, 
however,  an  utifailing  and  excellent  excuse  for  never 
doing  any  thing  he  disliked,  in  the  number  of  other 
sons  and  daughters  who  had  an  equal  claim  upon  his 
parental  care  and  tenderness — a  tenderness  which  con- 
sisted in  imperturbable  good-humour,  and  in  allowing 
them  all  the  run  of  the  house. 

The  two  fathers  were  slightly  acquainted  ;  and  Lord 
Cumberworth,  seating  himself  with  an  easy  air  by  the 
fire,  rubbed  his  hands  several  times  up  and  down  his 
shins,  and  at  length  said,  with  a  half  smile  and  a  shake 
of  the  head,  "  My  dear  lord,  this  is  a  sad  business  of 
my  son's  and  your  daughter's  ;  I  am  very  sorry  for  it, 
upon  my  soul !" 

Lord  Falkingham  felt  that  he  had  more  reason  to 
regret  it  than  Lord  Cumberworth,  inasmuch  as  Blanche 
would  have  twelve  thousand  pounds  at  his  death,  and 


BLANCHE. 


1S9 


De  Molton  would  only  come  in  for  the  eleventh  part  of 
fifty  thousand  pounds  at  his  father's  death  ;  inasmuch 
as  Lord  Falkingham  was  an  earl,  and  Lord  Cumher- 
worth  only  a  baron.  Ke  looked  a  little  awful,  and 
replied — 

"  Your  lordship  cannot  regret  the  circumstance  more 
than  I  do." 

"  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  prevent  it ;  I  have  told 
him  from  his  boyhood  that  a  man  is  never  undone  till 
he  is  married.  Just  before  he  sailed,  I  said,  '  Frank, 
my  boy,  remember  peril  by  marriage  is  the  worst  peril 
a  man  can  fall  into.  But  as  liiey  say,  every  one  must 
buy  his  own  experience  ;  and  when  young  people  have 
taken  a  fancy  into  their  heads,  we  cannot  preach  them 
out  of  it.  We  cannot  put  old  heads  on  young  shoul- 
ders, as  you  have  found  with  your  daughter,  my  lord." 

Lord  Falkingham  did  not  half  like  hearing  Lord 
Cumberworth  speak  as  if  Blanche  was  as  resolute  in 
her  predilection  as  her  lover  was  in  his,  though  it  might 
be  perfectly  true  that  she  was  so. 

''  My  ^ughter  places  herself  in  my  hands,  and  has 
no  idea  of  disobeying  my  commands."  Lord  Cumber- 
worth  slightly  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  did  not  betoken  that  he  partici- 
pated in  Lord  Falkingham's  reliance  on  his  daughter's 
submission.  "  But  as  I  know  her  happiness  is  deeply 
concerned  in  this  affair,  I  am  anxious  to  do  every  thing 
in  my  power  to  forward  hers  and  Captain  De  Mol ton's 
wishes." 

Lord  Cumberworth's  countenance  brightened  :  he 
did  not  exactly  know  how  strictly  Lork  Falkingham's 
property  was  entailed  upon  his  nephew,  and  he  drew 
his  chair  nearer  to  Lord  Falkingham,  hoping  that  his 
son  was  going  to  make  a  better  match  than  he  had  been 
aware  of 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  say ;  as  their  happiness  is 
concerned,  poor  young  things,  parents  should  strain  a 
point  rather  than  see  their  children  pine,  and  pine  as 
poor  Lady  Blanche  has  done." 

This  was  unpleasant  to  Lord  Falkingham's  pride  and 


190  BLANCHE. 

his  delicacy:  he  instinctively  pushed  his  chair  back  as 
many  inclies  as  Lord  Cumber  worth  had  advanced  his. 

The  good-humoured  but  unrefined  father  of  Ue  Mol- 
ton  was  totally  unsuspicious  that  he  had  at  all  offended, 
but  on  the  contrary  tiattered  himself  he  was  cleverly 
pushing  his  son's  interest.  "  After  all,  what  do  any  of 
us  wish  but  to  see  onr  children  happy?  I  am  sure 
there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  that  was  compatible 
with  my  means." 

"You  are  aware,"  resumed  Lord  Falkingham,  "  that 
my  estates  are  all  entailed  upon  my  nephew;  but  my 
personal  property  will  be  equally  divided  among  my 
four  daughters,  so  that  I  shall  be  able  to  leave  to  each 
twelve  thousand  pounds  at  my  death.  This  sum  I  will 
give  to  Blanche  upon  her  marriage  ;  and  if  you  will 
make  up  Captain  De  Molton's  income  equal  to  the  inter- 
est of  her  fortiuie,  I  will  consent  to  their  union,  although 
by  so  doing  I  believe  I  am  acting  the  part  of  a  weakly 
indulgent,  rather  than  of  a  truly  kind  father." 

Lord  Cumberworth's  countenance  fell.  He  had  ima- 
gined— he  scarcely  knew  what;  and  although  nothing 
could  be  more  fair  than  Lord  Falkingham's  proposal,  it 
fell  infinitely  short  of  what  he  had  expected,  and  he 
found  Jiimself  not  only  unwilling,  but  unable  to  do 
what  was  required  of  him. 

De  Molton  had  hitherto  lived  upon  his  pay  and  an 
additional  lOOZ.  per  annum  from  his  father.  Lord  Cum- 
ber worth  was  very  little  prepared  to  make  such  an 
addition  to  the  1001.  per  annum,  and  replied  evasively, 
"  that  he  would  do  all  in  his  power — but  that  he  had 
duties  towards  his  other  children — that  he  could  not 
exactly  say — that  he  would  communicate  with  his  man 
of  business — that  his  daughter  Charlotte's  marriage, 
and  the  expenses  attendant  upon  it,  did  not  render  him 
just  then  very  flush  of  money,"  &c.,  &c. 

In  short,  he  took  his  leave  somewhat  disappointed 
with  Lord  Falkingham,  while  the  impression  he  left 
upon  Lord  Falkingham's  mind  was  by  no  means  a 
favourable  one. 

Meanwhile,  Lady  Cumber  worth,  who  could  not  en- 


BLANCHE.  19J 

dure  to  witness  the  state  of  nervous  excitement  and 
agitation  in  whicli  her  darhng  Frank  paced  the  floor 
of  her  boudoir,  resolved  she  would  herself  seek  Lady 
Falkingham.  She  felt  sure  she  could  so  work  npon 
her  womanly  and  maternal  feelings  as  to  win  her  over 
to  the  side  of  the  lovers.  She  accordingly  ordered  her 
carriage,  and  soon  after  Lord  Cumberworth's  return 
from  his  momentous  interview  with  Lord  Falkingham, 
she  found  herself  at  the  same  door. 

She  did  not  inquire  if  Lady  Falkingham  was  at 
home,  but  sending  in  her  card,  she  desired  the  servant 
to  take  it  at  once  to  his  lady,  and  to  ask  if  she  could 
see  her  for  a  few  minutes. 

By  this  means  she  effected  her  entrance  ;  but  Lady 
Falkingham  was  exceedingly  annoyed  at  what  she 
deemed  an  unwarrantable  intrusion,  and  was  disposed 
to  think  Lady  Cumberworth,  who  was  the  most  hum- 
ble and  the  meekest  of  her  sex,  a  pushing,  obtrusive 
person. 

Lady  Cumberworth  was  somewhat  abashed  when 
she  entered  ;  for  although  she  had  worked  up  her 
courage  to  take  this  step  by  reminding  herself  that 
Lady  Falkingham  was  universally  allowed  to  be  a 
most  exemplary  mother,  and  that  therefore  she  must 
surely  understand  and  sympatliize  with  the  maternal 
feelings  of  another,  she  could  not  quite  shake  off  the 
impression  produced  by  Lady  Falkingham's  constant 
avoidance  of  herself 

Lady  Falkingham  was  alone  and  received  her  with 
the  most  awful  perfection  of  good-breeding.  The  gentle, 
the  kind,  the  unsuspicious  Lady  Cumberworth  felt 
chilled ;  but  she  tiiought  of  her  son's  care-worn  face, 
and  she  found  resolution  to  open  the  subject.  "  She 
was  sure  that  Lady  Falkingham's  own  tenderness  for 
her  daughter  would  plead  her  excuse  for  intruding  upon 
her  :  that  her  son's  peace  of  mind  was  so  completely 
involved  in  the  event  which  was  then  pending,  that  she 
could  not  withstand  the  temptation  of  seeking  Lady 
Falkingham,  and  of  pleading  his  cause.  She  was  fully 
aware  tliat  her  Frank  was  by  no  means  worthy  in  point 


192  Blanche. 

of  fortune  and  situation  to  match  with  Lady  Blanche  j 
but  that,  still,  in  point  of  character  and  disposition,  he 
was  so  perfect — so  kind,  so  dutiful  a  son  !  so  affection- 
ate a  brother !  so  excellent  in  all  the  relationships  of 
life  !  that  if  personal  qualities  could  make  up  for  the 
absence  of  worldly  advantages,  he  was  not  unworthy 
of  any  good  fortune."' 

Lady  Falkingham  listened  with  stately  politeness, 
and  when  Lady  Cumberworth  paused,  she  answered  : 
"that  she  had  no  doubt  his  mother's  account  of  his 
moral  perfections  was  perfectly  just,  but  she  feared 
these  qualities  would  not  provide  the  conveniences  of 
life.  She  regretted  as  much  as  Lady  Cumberworth 
herself  could  do,  the  necessity  of  attending  to  such 
paltry  considerations  ;  yet,  as  the  world  was  now  con- 
stituted, it  was  impossible  to  disregard  them." 

"  But,  dear  Lady  Falkingham,  surely  any  thing  is 
better  than  that  two  young  creatures  should  die  of 
broken  hearts  !" 

"  If  young  people  regulated  their  feelings,  we  should 
not  hear  of  such  unreasonable  proceedings." 

"But  in  youth  the  feelings  are  strong,  and  the  reason 
is  not  matured.  We  have  all  been  young ;  we  all 
know — " 

"  Certainly — I  also  have  been  young  ;  and  therefore 
I  know  that  in  youth  as  well  as  in  maturity,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  take  reason  rather  than  impulse  for  our  guide." 

Lady  Falkingham  had  never  deviated  for  a  moment, 
in  principle,  inclination,  or  practice,  from  the  strictest 
line  of  prudence  and  propriety.  Lady  Cumberworth 
thought  of  her  own  early  love,  and  of  its  tragic  ending, 
and  ardently  wished  to  preserve  her  child  and  the  ob- 
ject of  his  love  from  the  blight  which  had  passed  over 
her  own  young  days.  In  the  warmth  of  her  feelings 
she  could  not  help  saying  :  "  You  have  been  a  fortunate 
woman,  Lady  Falkingham  !  If  you  had  known  what 
it  is  to  give  the  whole  treasure  of  your  young  affections 
to  one  only  object,  and  to  be  deprived  of  that  object 
for  ever,  you  would  pause  before  you  doomed  any  thing 
you  loved  to  such  a  fate  !     It  is  hard  to  bear  when  the 


ih 


BLANCHE. 


193 


'eleprivation  comes  from  the  hand  of  Heaven ;  how 
much  more  hard  if  from  the  hand  of  man  !" 

Lady  Falkingham  did  not  reply.  The  deep  tone  of 
emotion  with  which  Lady  Cumberworth  spoke,  made 
her  unwillina:  to  maintain  her  own  side  of  the  argu- 
ment ;  neither  could  she  be  brought  to  allow  the  expe- 
diency of  Blanche's  marrying  Captain  De  Molton. 

At  this  moment,  Blanche  accidentally  entered  the 
room.  She  started  at  seeing  Lady  Cumberworth,  but 
approached  her  with  a  glowing,  blushing  countenance. 
Lady  Cumberworth,  whose  feelings  were  excited  by 
her  previous  conversation,  received  her  with  open  arms, 
embraced  her  tenderly,  and  burst  into  tears.  Blanche, 
surprised,  delighted,  overpowered,  returned  her  caresses 
with  corresponding  emotion.  Lady  Falkingham  sat 
by,  provoked  to  see  how  every  thing  conspired  to  bring 
about  the  dreaded  union,  and  somewhat  jealous  of  her 
daughter's  sudden  tenderness  for  a  stranger. 

The  following  day  a  second  interview  took  place 
between  the  fathers,  in  which  Lord  Falkingham  ascer- 
tained, through  a  profusion  of  fine  words,  that  Lord 
Cumberworth  either  could  not,  or  would  not  do  any 
thing  more  to  assist  his  son  in  making  up  an  income  ; 
and  Lord  Falkingham  thought  it  his  duty  to  inform 
his  daughter,  that  she  must  in  good  earnest  exert  her- 
self to  conqner  her  attachment — that  the  marriage  was 
impossible. 

Lady  Falkingham  looked  triumphant.  Lady  Blanche 
gave  way  to  utter  despair.  She  wept,  she  was  in  hys- 
terics ;  she  would  not  leave  her  room  ;  she  fretted  her- 
self really  ill  :  physicians  were  sent  for,  draughts  pre- 
scribed. Even  Lady  Falkingham  began  to  be  alarmed, 
and  was  unremitting  in  her  attentions.  But  these  at- 
tentions did  not  relieve  or  sooth  Blanche's  perturbed 
spirit.  Her  mother  had  never  attempted  by  kindness 
to  win  her  from  her  imprudent  attachment,  and  she  had 
completely  failed  in  ridiculing  her  out  of  it.  The  con- 
sequence was,  that  she  had  lost  all  influence  over  her 
mind,  and  much  of  that  which  she  had  possessed  over 
her  affections. 

VOL.    II. R 


194 


BLANCHE. 


De  Molton  of  course  heard  of  Blanche's  illness.  He 
wandered  about  tlie  neighbouring  streets  ;  he  inquired 
twenty  times  a  day  at  the  door ;  and  at  length,  upon 
hearing  that  Lady  Blanche  was  considered  worse,  and 
that  a  new  physician  had  been  called  in  to  a  consulta- 
tion, he  sent  a  message  to  Lord  Falkingham,  to  implore 
one  moment's  conversation. 

Lord  Falkingham  was  uneasy  and  confounded  at  the 
serious  aspect  of  his  daughter's  illness,  and  was  begin- 
ning to  think  any  thing  was  preferable  to  the  present 
state  of  affairs.  De  Molton  was  admitted,  and  a  pas- 
sionate appeal  on  his  part  did  not  meet  with  an  absolute 
refusal.  The  matter  was  again  renewed  ;  Blanche  was 
allowed  to  hope — her  health  rallied  surprisingly,  and  in 
the  course  of  three  or  four  days  she  was  able  to  descend 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  there  to  receive  De  Molton 
as  her  plighted  lover,  affianced  husband. 

And  now  did  they  at  length  enjoy  many  delightful 
tete-a-tetes  ;  and  so  fully  were  they  engaged  in  detailing 
to  each  other  all  the  sorrows  and  fears,  doubts,  anxieties, 
and  sufferings  of  their  years  of  separation,  that  they 
had  little  time  to  talk  over  or  to  arrange  their  plans  for 
the  future.  They  had  both  been  duly  warned  what 
were  their  prospects.  Even  the  tender  Lady  Cumber- 
worth  had  told  them  that  they  must  not  expect  to  pos- 
sess all  the  blessings  of  this  world  ;  that  as  they  would 
be  rich  in  that  which  seemed  to  her  the  greatest  of  all 
earthly  ones,  mutual  affection,  they  must  make  up  their 
minds  to  be  happy  witliout  others.  Lord  Cumber- 
worth  repeated,  "Remember,  Frank,  there  are  twelve 
of  you  :  I  cannot  rob  my  otfier  children  :"  which 
meant,  "I  do  not  mean  to  give  up  any  of  my  own 
comforts  for  you."  Lord  Falkingham  said  every  thing 
that  was  reasonable  and  kind,  and  at  the  same  time 
provided  them  with  a  plain  travelling  carriage,  with  all 
that  is  useful  and  necessary  in  the  way  of  plate,  and 
with  as  much  household  linen  as  would  be  advisable 
for  people  who  must  change  their  abode  as  often  as 
their  regiment  changed  its  quarters.  Lady  Falking- 
ham, who  had  been  too  much  terrified  by  Blanche's 


BLANCHE.  195 

despair  and  her  illness  actively  to  oppose  the  marriage^ 
contented  herself  with  shaking  her  head  mournfully, 
and  with  secretly  detesting  her  future  son-i,n-law  :  but 
she  spared  Blanche  many  of  the  home. truths  and  use- 
ful severities,  which  might  have  been  of  much  service 
had  they  been  duly  attended  to,  but  which,  under  the 
present  circumstances,  might  have  been  productive  of 
no  g^ood  eftect. 

Blanche  and  De  Mol ton,  however,  acquiesced  in  the 
truth  of  all  that  was  urged  by  their  other  relations  and 
friends,  and  declared,  with  the  utmost  sincerity,  their 
contempt  for  filthy  lucre  ;  a  contempt  unconditionally 
expressed  by  Blanche,  but  by  De  Molton  in  more  mea- 
sured terms,  as  considering  it  unworthy  to  be  put  into 
a  competition  with  the  affections  of  the  heart. 

Immediately  after  their  marriage,  they  were  to  repair 
to  a  very  pretty  villa  belonging  to  a  friend  of  Lord 
Ciimberworth's  ;  after  which  they  were  to  pay  several 
visits  ;  and  towards  the  autumn  they  were  to  join  De 
Molton's  regiment,  which  was  quartered  in  one  of  the 
most  lovely  parts  of  Devonshire. 

As  they  had  no  house  of  their  own,  there  was  no 
need  to  procure  furniture.  Lord  Falkingham  had 
already  provided  plate  and  linen  ;  Lady  Falkingham  of 
course  selected  the  ti-onsseau ;  presents  of  all  kinds 
flocked  in  from  the  numerous  connections  of  both  fami- 
lies— presents  which,  as  they  were  known  to  be  poor, 
were  all  intended  to  he  useful:  china  inkstands — 
Sevres  ornaments  for  chimneypieces — buhl  clocks, 
and  beautiful  dressing-boxes  with  cut-glass  bottles, 
mounted  in  silver  gilt  i 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  happiness  of  the  lovers — 
nothing  could  exceed  their  gratitude  to  their  friends  for 
their  considerate  kindness  ;  and  Blanche  felt  how  pref- 
erable were  these  tokens  of  affection  to  the  Glenrith 
diamonds,  which  she  had  received  so  coldly. 


196 


BXAIVCHXr. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LorJly  gallants,  tell  me  this  : 

Though  my  safe  content  you  weigh  not. 

In  your  greatness  what  one  bliss 
Have  you  gain'd,  that  I  enjoy  not  ? 

You  have  honours,  you  have  wealth, — 

I  have  peace,  and  I  have  health  ; 
All  the  day  I  merry  make, 

And  at  night  ho  care  I  take. 

George  Wither. 

The  honeymoon  was  spent  at  Sir  Frederick  Vyne- 
ton's  villa ;  whose  man-cook  and  whole  establishment 
were  devoted  to  the  new-married  couple,  while  the 
good-natured  proprietor  was  making  a  tour  in  the 
Low  Countries. 

Wlien  Captain  and  Lady  Blanche  De  Molton  entered 
the  dark-green  travelling  chariot  which  Lord  Falking- 
ham  had  given  them,  and  drove  from  the  portico  of  Sir 
Frederick  Vyneton's  villa,  on  their  way  to  Cransley,  to 
pass  a  fortnight  with  the  Westhopes,  Lady  Blanche  ex- 
claimed, "  How  strange  it  is  that  there  should  exist 
people  who  can  sell  themselves  for  money,  or  for  an 
estabUshment !  Should  we  be  happier,  Frank,  if  we 
possessed  the  mines  of  Golconda,  than  we  are  now  V* 
She  threw  her  beaming  eyes  upon  him  with  an  expres- 
sion of  .joyous  tenderness  which  made  him  indeed  feel 
himself  the  happiest  of  men  ;  yet  he  trembled  to  think 
how  little  she  knew  the  details  of  that  poverty  with 
which  he  was  already  acquainted,  although  only  in 
the  limited  degree  exi>erienced  by  a  single  man,  whose 
wants,  and  consequently  whose  privations,  are  merely 
personal. 

"  Dearest  Blanche,"  he  replied,  "  you  knovV  nothing 
of  poverty  yet.     Repeat  what  you  have  just  said  two 


BLANCHE.  197 

years  hence,  and  I  shall  indeed  esteem  myself  the  most 
blessed  of  human  beings.  I  hold  it  a  matter  of  duty 
and  of  conscience  to  live  within  one's  means,  whatever 
they  may  be  ;  and  if,  when  you  really  have  learned 
what  is  the  life  of  a  soldier's  wife,  you  still  say  you 
despise  worldly  wealth,  I  shall  be  happier — yes,  still 
happier — than  I  am  at  this  moment ;  fur  I  now  feel  as 
if  you  had  engaged  yourself  in  a  fate  you  are  not  pre- 
pared for.  But  1  have  warned  you,  dearest  Blanche — 
I  have  not  won  you  under  false  pretences !" 

"  We  shall  see,"  replied  Blanche,  smilingly.  "  I  think 
I  am  made  for  a  poor  man's  wife  ;  for  no  one  can  more 
heartily  detest  every  thing  appertaining  to  pomp  and 
splendour,  and  that  odious  thing  called  money." 

Blanche  expected  a  rapturous  glance  of  gratitude 
from  De  Molton,  and  was  surprised  at  hearing  him  sigh. 
The  truth  was,  they  knew  little  of  each  other's  dis- 
positions when  they  became  irrevocably  engaged, 
Blanche  was  warm,  enthusiastic,  inconsiderate ;  she 
followed  her  impulses,  without  looking  forward  beyond 
the  present  moment.  De  iVIolton  was  not  without  en- 
thusiasm, but  his  was  of  a  more  thoughtful  and  serious 
cast.  A  high  notion  of  honour  was  in  him  paramount 
to  all  other  considerations.  It  enabled  him  to  leave 
Paris  when  he  found  his  friend  was  in  love  with  Blanche, 
— it  enabled  him  to  quit  England  when  he  discovered 
that  she  was  in  love  with  himself, — it  enabled  him"  to 
stay  in  India  while  there  was  any  military  duty  to  be 
performed, — it  prompted  him  to  throw  himself  at  her 
iect  when  he  found  her  still  free,  although  by  so  doing 
he  scarcely  hoped  for  any  thing  but  a  contemptuous 
refusal  on  the  part  of  her  parents.  It  now  made  him 
resolve  that  his  love  for  his  beautiful  wife  should  not 
lead  him  into  any  expenses  which  his  limited  income 
could  not  meet ;  and  that,  however  painful  he  might 
find  it  to  see  her  deprived  of  the  luxuries  to  which  she 
had  been  accustomed,  he  would  never  be  tempted  to 
run  into  debt,  or  to  be  a  burden  upon  his  father,  who 
was  neither  able  nor  willing  to  assist  him. 

But  when  he  made  this  resolution,  he  did  not  look 
r2 


198  BLANCHE. 

forward  with  unmixed  pleasure  to  installing  her  in  the 
temporary  home  which  he  should  be  able  to  procure 
for  her  near  M  *  *  *.  She  watched  the  serious  ex- 
pression of  his  countenance,  and  she  admired  that  ex- 
pression, though  she  wished  at  this  moment  to  dispel 
it ;  nor  was  it  long  before  she  succeeded  in  driving 
away  all  traces  of  care  from  his  countenance. 

Several  agreeable  visits  succeeded  that  to  Cransley ; 
and  at  last,  when  they  approached  the  neighbourhood 
of  M  *  *  *,  he  left  her  for  a  few  days  at  the  house  of 
a  cousin,  while  he  preceded  her  to  his  quarters,  for  the 
purpose  of  preparing  some  comfortable  habitation  for 
her  reception. 

He  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  very  pretty  cot- 
tage, with  a  veranda  and  a  garden,  to  be  let  within  a 
mile  of  the  town.  He  arranged  the  furniture  so  as  to 
make  it  look  as  little  like  a  lodging-house  as  possible  ; 
he  unpacked  all  the  presents  which  had,  at  a  consider- 
able expense,  been  forwarded  to  M  *  *  * ;  and  before 
Blanche  joined  him,  he  had  so  disposed  the  buhl  clock, 
the  inkstands,  the  paper  cutters,  the  letter  pressors,  the 
Persian  table  covers,  and  the  low,  luxurious,  well-cush- 
ioned armchair,  which  Lady  Cumberworth  insisted 
should  form  part  of  the  camp  equipage,  as  to  give  the 
room  a  look  of  home. 

De  Molton  hastened  to  receive  Blanche  at  the  door, 
and  ushered  her,  with  more  complacency  and  satisfac- 
tion than  he  had  anticipated,  through  the  narrow  en- 
trance, into  the  treillaged  drawing-room. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The  flowers  had  not  yet 
all  faded ;  the  little  garden  was  bright  in  the  western 
sun.  The  view  was  enchanting.  Rich  varieties  of 
luxuriant  trees  clothed  the  undulating  slope  to  the  sea- 
shore, and  the  clear  blue  sea,  at  a  little  distance,  which 
from  their  elevated  situation  reflected  to  their  eye  the 
azure  of  the  heavens,  formed  as  it  were  a  background 
to  the  wooded  bank. 

Blanche  was  enchanted.  "  How  lovely  !  how  beau- 
tiful!    Oh,  what  are  castles,  halls,  abbeys,  parks,  or 


BLANCHE.  199 

palaces,  to  such  a  home  as  this,  with  the  person  one 
loves  !" 

De  Molton  was  indeed  happy — too  happy  for  utter- 
ance. A  tear  fathered  in  his  eye,  which  he  was  almost 
ashamed  should  be  seen  even  by  his  wife  ;  and  yet  he 
could  not  avert  his  eyes  from  hers  when  she  looked  up 
so  tenderly  in  his  face.  He  gently  drew  her  arm  within 
his  own,  and  they  walked  forth  to  enjoy,  in  the  fulness 
of  their  hearts,  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  delight 
of  enjoying  them  together. 

Thanks  to  the  snow-white  tablecloth,  the  handsome 
plate,  the  presents  of  Lord  Falkingham  ;  the  pretty 
dinner-service,  that  of  Lord  Cumberworth  ;  the  lovely 
dessert-service,  that  of  Lady  Cumberworth  ;  the  cut- 
glass  bottles,  that  of  the  eldest  Miss  De  Molton ;  the 
tea-things,  that  of  Miss  M.  De  Molton ;  the  breakfast- 
things,  that  of  Miss  J.  De  Molton ;  the  silver  urn,  that 
of  one  of  Blanche's  married  sisters  ;  and  the  silver 
coffee-pot,  that  of  another  ; — the  first  four-and-twenty 
hours  of  Blanche's  life  as  the  mistress  of  her  own 
house,  passed  in  a  state  of  rapture  and  of  constant 
exclamations  at  the  uselessness  and  contemptibility  of 
money. 

She  forgot  that  she  was  all  this  time  enjoying  money's 
worth,  and  that  indifference  to  worldly  advantages  is 
not  put  to  the  test  while  a  person  possesses  every  lux- 
ury, every  elegance,  though  on  a  small  scale, — at  the 
moment  of  all  others,  too,  when  married  lovers  wish 
only  for  the  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society. 

One  of  the  soldiers,  who  had  been  trained  by  De 
Molton  to  act  as  his  valet,  served  as  footman.  His 
horses  were,  of  course,  taken  care  of  in  the  barracks ; 
and,  as  he  had  a  gig,  they  were  able  to  drive  every  day 
in  different  directions,  exploring  new  parts  of  the  de- 
lightful country  around.  Blanche's  life  was  a  day- 
dream of  delight;  her  rich  hazel  eyes  sparkled  with 
feeling  and  gayety  ;  her  rosy  lips  smiled  joyously  when- 
ever De  Molton  entered  the  room  ;  to  her 

"  This  earth  was  all  one  beautiful  dream." 


SOO  BLANCHE. 

Still,  De  Molton  felt  that  Blanche  had  not  steadily 
and  dispassionately  weighed  the  advantages  and  disad- 
vantages of  their  present  situation,  and  that  it  was  not 
with  a  thorough  knowledge  of  what  she  was  under- 
taking that  she  iiad  made  choice  of  poverty  with  him. 

Too  much  reliance  must  not  be  placed  on  those  who, 
having  never  had  a  wish  ungratified  in  the  way  of 
worldly  conveniences,  profess  to  despise  them.  If  those 
who  have  already  experienced  privation  deliberately 
form  a  poor  marriage,  we  may  conclude  that  they  will 
know  how  to  abide  by  the  selection  they  have  made, 
and  we  need  not  anticipate  for  them  mortification  and 
disappointment. 

De  Molton,  from  his  early  youth,  had  had  many  op- 
portunities of  seeing  the  details  of  a  married  officer's 
life;  and  though,  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
he  gladly  encountered  the  difficulties  which  he  knew 
awaited  him,  he  was  thoroughly  aware  what  they 
were,  and  he  regretted  that  she  should  be  exposed  to 
them.  He  almost  trembled  at  her  exuberant  happi- 
ness, knowing  that  he  might  not  always  procure  for  her 
a  pretty  cottage  orne  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  bar- 
racks, and  that  they  should  not  always  be  quartered  in 
so  cheap  a  country  as  Devonshire. 

He  would  rather  have  seen  her  more  soberly  con- 
tented ;  and  when  she,  proud,  as  it  were,  of  being  so 
happy,  looked  to  him  for  applause,  she  was  half  morti- 
fied at  the  flatness  with  which  her  unworldly  sentiments 
were  received. 

These  sentiments  were  not  so  frequently  expressed 
as  the  season  advanced.  The  flowers  wei-e  all  gone  ; 
the  little  garden  was  very  damp ;  the  veranda  kept  out 
the  sun,  and  the  windows  did  not  keep  out  the  wind ; 
the  roof  did  not  always  exclude  the  rain  ;  and  black 
beetles  abounded  on  the  ground  floor,  and  sometimes  a 
stray  one  mounted  to  the  bedrooms.  The  walks  were 
muddy,  the  drives  were  windy,  the  trees  had  lost  their 
foliage,  and  the  chimneys  smoked. 

One  evening,  as  they  left  the  little  dining-room,  and 
entered  the  small  drawing-room,  they  were  half  stifled 


BLANCHE.  201 

with  smoke.  •'  Oh,  dearest  Frank !  make  haste  and 
open  the  window,  or  we  shall  be  smothered."  But  the 
window  was  a  French  window,  and  the  wind  set  that 
way.  There  was  no  fastening  it  open  so  as  not  to  run 
the  risk  of  breaking  it,  or  letting  in  a  perfect  hurricane. 
They  agreed  to  open  the  door  and  window,  and  to  re- 
turn to  the  dining-room  till  the  atmosphere  was  once 
more  fit  for  respiration. 

This  desirable  result  was  soon  accomplished,  as  small 
rooms  are  soon  filled  with  smoke,  soon  cleared,  soon 
warmed,  and  soon  cooled.  Accordingly,  when  they 
re-entered  their  snug  apartment,  they  might  as  well 
have  established  themselves  under  the  veranda  for  any 
benefit  they  derived  from  the  fire,  which  was  only  now 
beginning  to  burn.  "  This  is  the  only  objection  to  small 
rooms  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Blanche.  "  If  one  keeps  the 
doors  shut,  they  become  oppressively  hot ;  and  if  one 
opens  a  door  or  a  window,  they  are  as  cold  as  if  they 
had  never  been  inhabited." 

"  It  is  very  true,  indeed,"  rejoined  De  Molton :  "  shall 
I  fetch  you  a  shawl,  dearest  Blanche?" 

"  Thank  you,  dearest  Frank,  I  think  it  would  be 
comfortable  ;"  and  she  drew  her  chair  close  to  the  fire, 
and  placed  her  feet  upon  the  fender,  when  a  great  puff 
of  black  smoke  turned  back  from  the  chimney,  as  if  to 
fly  in  her  face.  She  quickly  pushed  back  her  chair. 
"  How  stupid  that  Devonshire  girl  is  ! — she  always  will 
heap  the  grate  with  small  coals.  Surely  a  housemaid's 
business  is  to  know  how  to  light  a  fire !" 

"  It  is,  indeed  ;  but  I  am  afraid  a  raw  Devonshire 
girl  is  not  likely  to  be  an  accomplished  housemaid." 
And  De  Molton  hastened  out  of  the  room  to  seek  his 
dear  Blanche's  shawl. 

"  Now,  Frank,  you  must  read  to  me  while  I  work ; 
that  will  be  so  comfortable  !  and  I  have  a  great  deal  of 
work  to  do.  I  shall  show  you  what  a  good  poor  man's 
wife  I  am  !"  She  took  out  of  her  delicate  ivory  work- 
box  a  small  cap  of  tiny  dimensions,  which  she  was  be- 
ginning to  embroider  with  the  most  intricate  patterns. 

De  Molton  looked  really  pleased,  and  smiled  upon 


202  BLANCHE. 

her  with  the  gentle  sentimental  smile  which  had  always 
appeared  so  bewitching. 

The  room  became  warmer,  the  fire  clearer ;  the 
shawl  was  very  tenderly  arranged  by  De  Molton  him- 
self; and  they  sat  down  to  pass  a  comfortable,  domestic, 
and  rational  evening. 

"  What  book  shall  I  read  to  you  ?"  inquired  De 
Molton.  "  Some  of  your  own  youthful  library,  which 
your  mother  so  kindly  sent  after  us  ?" 

"  Oh  no  !  I  know  all  those  books  by  heart ;  but  you 
have  some  of  your  own  upon  that  shelf.  I  dare  say 
they  will  be  quite  new  to  me." 

"  I  dare  say  they  will,  dearest,  for  they  are  all  upon 
military  tactics,  engineering,  and  fortification, — Vau- 
ban,  Coehorn,  and  Jomini,  &c." 

"  Oh,  that  will  never  do,"  rejoined  Blanche.  But 
there  are  some  novels,  from  the  circulating  library  at 
M  *"  *  *,  which  I  have  not  yet  looked  at.  I  dare  say 
that  you  will  find  something  to  amuse,  though  it  may 
not  instruct  us." 

He  turned  over  the  volumes — the  usual  trash  of  a 
country-town  library — Lady  EveUnas  and  Altendorfs, 
and  Cecilias  and  Mortimers,  Albertinas  and  Ildelheims, 
Eleanoras  and  Miraldinis,  by  the  dozen.  They  at- 
tempted one  or  two,  but  could  not  proceed  beyond  the 
first  three  pages. 

"  Dearest  Frank,  why  would  you  not  subscribe  to  a 
London  library,  as  I  begged  you  to  do  ?  You  see  these 
books  are  not  readable." 

"  The  expense  of  the  carriage,  dear  Blanche,  as  well 
as  that  of  the  original  subscription,  made  me  very  un- 
willing to  do  so.  Moreover,  even  the  London  libraries 
do  not  supply  one  with  very  good  books,  when  one  is  at 
such  a  distance  in  the  country," 

"  Well !  we  will  return  these  horrors,  and  you  shall 
see  what  you  can  procure  to-morrow.  By-the-by,  do 
send  for  the  mason,  or  the  bricklayer,  or  whoever  the 
man  may  be  who  does  chimneys,  and  let  him  try  to 
prevent  the  smoke.  Look,  again !  now  we  have  had 
fresh  coals." 


BLANCHE.  303 

"  I  will  send  about  it  to-morrow ;  but  I  am  afraid 
we  shall  not  be  able  to  effect  much  good  in  a  lodging- 
house." 

The  next  day  "  the  man  who  did  chimneys"  came, 
and  he  proposed  new  setting  the  grate,  contracting  the 
sides,  and  altering  the  flue.  Blanche  said,  by  all  means, 
if  these  measures  would  secure  the  absence  of  smoke. 
De  Molton  inquired  what  would  be  the  cost  of  the 
alteration,  and  found  that  it  would  be  nearly  a  third  of 
the  house-rent  for  the  year.  He  paused,  dismissed  the 
man,  and  explained  to  Blanche,  that  as  they  were  to 
pay  her  father  and  mother  a  visit  in  the  spring,  and  as  a 
great  part  of  the  winter  was  over,  and  as  they  would 
probably  be  quartered  in  some  different  part  of  the 
world  the  following  winter,  it  would  not  be  wise  to 
spend  much  money  upon  the  chimney ;  and  he  advised 
their  sitting  in  the  dining-room  when  the  wind  happened 
to  blow  from  the  smoky  quarter. 

To  this  she  assented,  but  it  was  with  an  effort ;  and 
she  evidently  did  so,  to  prove  that  she  was,  indeed,  the 
good  poor  man's  wife  she  had  professed  to  be. 

Colonel  Jones,  the  colonel  of  the  regiment,  and  his 
wife,  on  their  return  from  a  short  absence  among  their 
friends,  waited  upon  Lady  Blanche.  As  she  could  not, 
in  this  remote  corner  of  the  world,  enjoy  the  best  so- 
ciety, Blanche  would  much  have  preferred  living  in 
complete  seclusion.  But  De  Molton,  who  thought  any 
slackness  on  their  part  would  be  a  want  of  attention 
from  an  inferior  to  a  superior  officer,  did  not  allow  her 
to  put  off  the  visit  of  propriety. 

The  weather  was  fine,  though  cold  ;  and  they  walked 
to  call  on  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Jones,  who  lived  in  the 
town,  close  to  the  barracks. 

As  they  entered  the  door,  their  noses  were  assailed 
by  the  smell  of  roast  mutton  and  rice  pudding;  and 
they  were  ushered  into  a  dark  two-windowed  country 
town  drawing-room,  with  a  dirty  green  paper  and  a 
high  dado,  which  had  once  been  painted  white  ;  while 
remarkably  smart  bell-ropes  rendered  the  dinginess  of 
the  rest  more  conspicuous  from  the  contrast. 


S04  BLANCHE, 

Nine  rosy  children  and  the  governess  were  seated  at 
dinner;  Mrs.  Jones  officiating  as  carver,  and  the  head 
nurse  assisting  the  youngest  to  guide  its  food  safely  to 
its  mouth.  A  smell  of  pudding  and  of  small  beer 
pervaded  the  apartment,  and  greatly  annoyed  Lady 
Blanche. 

De  Molton  introduced  her  to  the  colonel's  lady,  who, 
relinquishing  the  carving  knife  to  the  governess,  retired 
from  the  scene  of  action  to  the  sofa  with  Lady  Blanche, 
and  apologized  for  her  children  being  so  late  at  dinner, 
saying,  "  The  colonel  had  taken  the  boys  out  with  him 
to  see  the  itinerant  menagerie  in  the  market-place,  and 
had  kept  them  beyond  their  usual  dinner-hour ;  or 
else,"  she  continued,  "  I  always  make  it  a  point  to  be 
fit  to  be  seen  at  visiting  hours ;  for  when  one  lives  in 
the  world,  one  can  never  tell  who  may  drop  in." 

The  little  Joneses,  who,  having  always  lived  "in  the 
world,"  were  not  shy,  and  were  not  more  awed  by  the 
De  Moltons  than  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  M'Vining,  or  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Green,  or  any  of  the  other  misters  and  mis- 
tresses who  "  dropped  in,"  proceeded  with  their  repast 
somewhat  noisily:  they  were  healthy,  and  there  were 
nine  of  them  ! 

Blanche  could  hardly  hear  herself  speak,  but  she  was 
too  well-bred  to  be  fine ;  and  she  contrived  to  look  as 
if  she  heard  all  Mrs.  Jones  said,  and  as  if  she  was  quite 
accustomed  to  noisy  children  and  clattering  plates. 

Dinner  was  over;  grace  was  said  in  French  by  the 
eldest  girl;  they  rose  simultaneously ;  and,  after  being 
kissed  by  their  mamma,  were  dismissed  to  have  their 
faces  washed,  and  their  brown-holland  pinafores  taken 
off,  preparatory  to  the  afternoon  walk. 

Mrs.  Jones  was  an  excellent  woman,  who  was  de- 
voted to  her  domestic  duties,  and  she  considered  the 
whole  proceeding  as  so  completely  in  the  common 
course  of  things,  that  she  made  no  apologies ;  and  was 
so  far  from  being  distressed  or  annoyed  by  the  bustle, 
the  ferment,  and  the  clatter,  that  she  was  scarcely 
aware  a  noise  had  existed,  or  that  when  the  door  closed 
upon  the  last  child  a  calm  succeeded  to  the  storm. 


SLAJVCKE.  205 

When  the  De  Moltons  took  their  leave,  Mrs.  Jones 
good-humouredly  ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  called 
aloud  for  John,  at  the  sanne  time  complaining  how 
troublesome  it  was  that  neither  of  the  bells  in  the 
drawing-room  would  ring.  John  was  not  forthcoming ; 
and  a  dirt\^  housemaid  appeared  in  his  stead,  hastily 
tying  a  clean  apron  over  the  very  dirty  one  beneath : 
she  opened  the  street  door,  and  Blanche  squeezed  past 
her  into  the  welcome  open  air. 

"  Oh,  Frank !"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  can  people  sub- 
mit to  live  in  so  wretched  and  vulgar  a  manner  !  Mrs. 
Jones  is  not  so  dreadful  herself,  but  her  entourage  T 

"  My  dear  Blanche,  Colonel  Jones  is  very  poor :  and 
he  has  nine  children !" 

"  But  there  is  no  occasion  to  have  things  about  one 
so  dirty,  so  untidy,  so  uncomfortable.  We  are  poor, 
but  how  different !" 

"  Our  cottage  would  not  contain  one-ninth  of  Colonel 
Jones's  children." 

"But  why  have  no  beli?  And  why  such  bell- 
ropes  ?" 

"  Poor  people  cannot  afford  to  furnish  every  tem- 
porary lodging-house  with  elegances." 

"  But  why  have  all  the  Masters  and  Misses  Jones  dine 
in  one's  drawing-room  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  all  the  other  rooms  are  preoccupied 
as  sleeping  apartments  for  said  Masters  and  Misses 
Jones." 

"  Now  you  are  resolved  to  be  provoking,  and  I  could 
beat  you  for  not  agreeing  with  me." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Blanche,  that  poverty  is  not  a  pretty 
thing  in  reality,  though  it  sounds  pretty  in  a  book." 

De  Molton  looked  serious ;  he  could  not  joke  upon. 
the  subject.  Blanche  also  looked  serious,  for  she 
thought  he  was  rather  over  solemn,  and  she  firmly 
resolved  she  would  not  be  poor  after  Mr.  Jones's 
fashion. 

Blanche  worked  very  diligently  at  the  little  cap  ^ 
and  when  she  had  finished  the  cap,  she  embroidered 
the  body  of  a  little  frock,  and  showed  them  cxultingly 

VOL.  11. — s 


20G  BLANCHE. 

to  her  husband.  Still  these  preparations  did  not  go  far 
towards  providing  the  expected  scion  of  the  house  of 
De  Molton  with  the  necessary  wardrobe  ;  and  Blanche 
feared  she  should  be  obliged  to  procure  many  articles 
ready-made  in  the  town. 

"Why  should  not  your  maid  work  at  them,  my 
dear?"  suggested  De  Molton,  as  he  found  her  consider- 
ing, and  wondering,  and  calculating  what  plan  she  had 
best  pursue. 

"  Why,  perhaps,  she  would  undertake  the  caps  for 
me ;  but  she  has  never  been  used  to  any  thing  but 
dress-making.  Mamma  never  expected  her  to  do  any 
thing  else." 

*'  You  have  been  working  so  much  yourself,  surely 
you  must  have  done  a  great  deal." 

"  Oh  yes  1 — this  cap  and  this  body.  Look  how  beau- 
tiful they  are  !" 

Blanche's  distresses  on  this  score  were,  however, 
soon  relieved  by  learning  from  Lady  Cumberworth 
that  her  good-natured  sisters-in-law  had  amused  them- 
selves by  making  and  providing  every  thing  that  she 
could  want ;  and  that  a  lovely  set  of  baby-linen  would 
meet  her  at  Lord  Falkingham's,  where  she  was  to  pass 
some  time  previous  to  her  confinement,  in  order  that 
she  might  be  under  her  mother's  eye. 

She  was  not  sorry  when  the  time  came  for  leaving 
the  pretty  smoky  cottage.  The  March  winds  did  not 
agree  with  the  chimney,  and  she  was  not  well  enough 
to  be  able  to  roam  among  the  dells  and  dingles,  the 
shaws  and  the  banks,  in  search  of  violets  and  prim- 
roses ;  and  she  thought  it  would  certainly  be  more  de- 
sirable to  enact  the  invalid,  with  all  appliances  and 
means  to  boot,  in  her  father's  luxurious  mansion,  than 
in  the  windy,  smoky,  creaking  lath  and  plaster  cottage 
which  looked  so  pretty  in  the  beginning  of  September. 
In  London,  Blanche  would  have  been  perfectly  happy 
with  her  kind  father, — her  mother  who  loved  her,  though 
not  with  the  usual  melting  tenderness  of  a  mother, — 
with  her  husband,  who  was  as  handsome  and  interest- 
ing in  appearance,  and  if  possible  more  affectionate  in 


BLANCHE.  207 

his  attentions  than  ever, — and  with  her  husband's  family 
doting  upon  her, — if  it  had  not  been  that  Lady  Falk- 
ingham  treated  De  Molton  with  a  shade  of  super- 
ciliousness. She  always  spoke  of  her  daughter  as 
"  poor  Blanche,"  wondered  to  see  her  look  so  well  after 
the  terrible  winter  she  had  passed  in  a  house  scarcely 
weather-tight,  alluded  constantly  to  the  great  change 
that  had  taken  place ■  in  her  situation,  and  almost  ridi- 
culed the  notion  of  the  Misses  Do  Molton  having  pre- 
sented her  with  such  pretty  worked  caps  and  embroi- 
dered frocks  for  the  "  poor  little  creature"'  that  was 
expected ! 

These  speeches,  although  they  contained  some  unde- 
niable truths,  were  extremely  galling  to  De  Molton, 
and  very  unpleasant  to  Blanche,  for  his  sake  as  well  as 
for  her  own. 

Blanche  found  herself  infinitely  happier  with  her 
husband's  family,  where,  instead  of  being  treated  as  a 
person  wdio  was  now  to  be  looked  down  upon  by  those 
who  were  once  her  compeers,  she  was  considered  the 
most  charming  of  her  sex ;  adored  by  Lady  Cumber- 
worth  for  having  loved  her  son  so  disinterestedly; 
made  a  fuss  with  by  the  Misses  De  Molton  because 
they  were  good-humoured  girls,  by  nature  inclined  to 
like  rather  than  dislike  any  fine,  natural,  affectionate 
creature  of  their  own  age;  and  very  much  admired  by 
Lord  Cumberworth,  who  thought  she  was  an  exceed- 
ingly fine  woman,  and  that  Frank  was  a  very  lucky 
fellow,  for  the  present  at  least,  however  the  marriage 
might  turn  out  in  the  long-run. 


208  BLANCHE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

There  little  love  or  c-inty  cheer  can  come 
Frae  duddy  doublets  and  a  pantry  toom. 

Allan  Ramsat. 

As  De  Molton  expected,  the  quarters  of  his  regiment 
were  changed ;  and  soon  after  Blanche's  confinement, 
he  left  her  to  superintend  the  removal  of  their  goods  and 
chattels,  and  the  arrangement  of  them  in  some  other 
temporary  domicil. 

Unfortunately,  the  regiment  was  sent  to  a  small  town, 
built  principally  of  red  brick,  situated  in  one  of  the  mid- 
land counties, — ugly,  bare,  and  bleak.  There  were  no 
pretty  cottages  with  nice  gardens  in  the  neighbourhood  ; 
not  even  a  retired  farmhouse,  with  a  few  rooms  to  be 
let ;  for  the  rustic  inconveniences  and  rural  inelegances 
of  a  rambling  farmhouse  are  infinitely  preferable  to  the 
pert  vulgarity  of  a  red  house  in  a  street. 

To  this  last  alternative  De  Molton  was  most  unwil- 
lingly reduced,  and  all  he  could  accomplish  was  the  ac- 
quisition of  one  of  the  few  tenements  to  which  was 
affixed  a  bright  light  green  balcony,  which  formed  a 
brilliant  contrast  to  the  vermilion  of  the  walls ;  at  least, 
the  untarnished  freshness  of  the  colouring  gave  promise 
of  new  furniture  and  cleanliness  within. 

He  returned  to  London  for  his  wife  and  child,  and  his 
delight  at  seeing  them  was  somewhat  alloyed  by  finding 
that,  during  his  absence,  Blanche  and  her  father  had  as- 
certained that  Turton  was  very  little  out  of  the  way  to  ■ 
Temple  Loseley,  and  that,  consequently,  he  and  her  mo- 
ther would  pass  a  night  or  two  with  Blanche  on  their 
way  into  the  country. 

If  his  heart  had  sunk  within  him  at  the  thoughts  of  in- 
troducing his  wife  to  the  vulgar  abode  which  he  had  been 
obliged  to  provide  for  her,  how  much  more  did  it  sink  at 


BLANCHE.  209 

the  thoughts  of  exhibiting  to  her  parents  their  graceful, 
their  beautiful,  their  high-born  daughter,  as  mistress  of 
this  same  abode  !  Moreover,  the  house  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  receive  an  influx  of  company. 

Still,  every  one  ought  to  be  proud  and  happy  to  re- 
ceive a  father  and  mother-in-law  under  his  own  roof; 
and  he  was  determined  to  be  so.  He  reminded  himself 
that,  though  he  was  poor,  he  had  never  pretended  to  be 
otherwise — he  never  would  pretend  to  be  otherwise : 
there  was  no  disgrace  in  poverty ;  he  had  presented 
himself  under  no  false  colours ;  he  knew  his  own  situa- 
tion, and  he  would  not  throw  a  ridicule  over  it  by  seeming 
ashamed  of  it. 

Blanche  had  pictured  to  herself  another  cottage,  of  the 
same  stamp  as  that  in  Devonshire  :  and  as  the  country 
was  now  in  full  beauty,  and  as  there  was  no  occasion  to 
put  the  chimneys  to  the  test,  she  anticipated  with  plea- 
sure showing  her  mother  how  happy  and  how  pretty  an 
humble  home  might  be  ;  how  dignified  De  Molton  could 
look,  though  employed  in  working  in  his  garden ;  and 
how  little  she  deserved  the  pity  that  had  been  lavished 
upon  her. 

She  was  extremely  vexed  when  her  dear  Frank  broke 
to  her  the  nature  of  the  country,  the  situation  of  the 
town,  the  sort  of  house  he  had  been  compelled  to  hire. 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  to  be  pi'ocured  for  love  or 
money  V 

"  For  money,  yes ;  for  love,  not !"  he  replied. 

"  But  if  something  else  is  to  be  got,  for  Heaven's  sake 
make  any  sacrifice !" 

"  There  is  one  house  much  larger  than  we  require, 
which  has  been  fitted  up  with  every  luxury  by  a  retired 
brewer,  who  now  wishes  to  travel,  and  would'  gladly  let 
it." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  just  the  thing !" 

"  My  dear !  the  rent  is  far,  far  beyond  our  means." 

"  Oh  !  but  for  one  year,  dearest  Frank  !" 

"  With  a  limited  income,  one  year's  extravagance  un- 
avoidably entails  many,  many  years  of  real  distress.  I 
will  not  run  the  risk  of  being  unable  to  answer  the  just 

s2 


210  BLANCHE. 

demands  of  my  tradesmen.  I  never  sent  a  creditor 
away  without  his  money,  and  I  never  will." 

De  Molten  spoke  with  seriousness,  and  something  ap- 
proaching harshness  ;  for  he  suffered  under  the  mortifi- 
cation of  [lis  wife,  and  the  tone  was  meant  to  confirm 
his  own  determination,  not  to  be  unkind  to  her.  She 
thought  him  stern. 

"  We  had  much  better  put  off  papa  and  mamma,  and 
say  at  once  we  cannot  receive  them." 

Her  tone  was  a  little  pettish.  De  Molton's  task  was 
no  longer  so  difficult ;  he  dreaded  seeing  her  unhappy, 
but  the  moment  he  perceived  there  was  temper  mixed 
with  her  sorrow,  his  fortitude  returned,  and  he  replied, 
"  By  no  means ;  such  as  it  is,  our  home  is  even  open  to 
our  parents ;  and  we  have  only  to  regret  that  it  is  not  in 
our  power  to  make  them  more  comfortable." 

"  I  had  a  thousand  times  rather  mamma  did  not  come 
at  all,  than  she  should  see  me  in  such  a  hole  as  you  de- 
scribe." 

Her  voice  was  half  choked  with  rising  emotion :  she 
had  led  her  mother  to  expect  something  so  very  different ! 
The  Devonshire  cottage  had  grown  under  her  glowing 
descriptions  into  a  miniature  terrestial  paradise. 

"  Blanche,  this  is  not  kind  by  your  parents  ;  you  should 
M  ish  to  see  them  for  their  own  sakes."  Certainly  De 
^lolton  did  not  wish  to  see  them,  but  he  would  not  have 
pleaded  guilty  to  such  a  weakness  for  the  world. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  wish  to  be  exposed  to 
mamma's  taunting  expressions  and  contemptuous  looks ;" 
and  partly  from  vexation,  and  partly  from  bodily  weak- 
ness, she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Blanche,  this  is  childish  !  You  chose  to  marry  a  poor 
man,  and  you  must  abide  by  it.'" 

"  You  should  not  be  the  person  to  speak  so  coldly  and 
unkindly.  You  know  the  thing  1  mind  most  of  all  is, 
that  mamma  always  seems  to  despise  you;  and  I  had 
lioped  to  show  her  that,  though  we  were  poor,  we  did 
not  deserve  pity."  Her  sobs  here  interrupted  her  words. 
In  addition  to  her  other  mortifications,  she  felt  injured 


BLANCHE.  211 

by  the  husband  whose  dignity  she  was  so  anxious  to 
uphold. 

De  Molton  was  quite  overcome  by  finding  it  was  for 
him  her  feehngs  were  so  strongly  excited.  "  Blanciie, 
dearest  Blanche  !"'  he  exclaimed,  "  you  do  not  think  me 
ungrateful  for  all  you  have  given  up  for  my  sake  !  Oh  no ! 
you  cannot  think  that !"  And  he  soothed  her  by  every 
attention  and  kindness  in  his  power. 

The  effervescence  of  her  mortification  and  vexation 
had  exhausted  itself,  and  she  was  sorry  to  have  wounded 
him  ;  he  was  also  annoyed  at  having  allowed  an  unkind 
word  to  escape  his  lips  ;  and  they  were  still  sufficiently 
lovers  for  their  little  quarrel  to  be  almost  a  renewal  of 
love  :  almost, — but  not  quite.  Blanche  could  not  forget 
that  he  had  said,  "  You  have  married  a  poor  man,  and 
you  must  abide  by  it ;"  and  De  Molton  remembered  that 
she  had  said,  "  She  should  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  such 
a  hole,"  as  the  only  home  he  could  take  her  to. 

These  words  recurred  to  his  mind  more  and  more 
frequently  as  they  drew  near  the  small  town  of  Turton, 
He  felt  quite  angry  with  the  Horse-guards  for  having 
built  any  barracks  in  so  frightful  a  country  as  that  which 
they  were  approaching.  It  was  all  arable  ;  but  there 
were  no  enclosures,  no  hedges,  no  hill,  no  dale,  no  woods, 
no  copses  ;  merely  a  succession  of  fields  ;  in  the  highest 
state  of  cultivation  it  is  true,  but  that  circumstance  did 
not  add  to  their  beauty  in  Blanche's  eyes.  She  would 
gladly  have  seen  the  wheat  enlivened  by  some  brilliant 
scarlet  poppies,  some  beautiful  old-fashioned  blue  corn- 
flowers, now  almost  exploded  by  the  improvements  in 
agriculture ;  she  would  gladly  have  been  greeted  with 
the  fragrance  of  a  distant  field  of  charlock. 

They  had  a  good  view  of  Turton  long  before  they 
reached  it ;  for  it  was  placed  in  the  midst  of  a  large 
basin  of  land,  divided  into  squares  by  the  various  crops, 
though  by  no  other  visible  mark.  From  the  last  hill,  as 
they  looked  down  into  the  broad  vale  below,  De  Molton 
felt  responsible  for  its  ugliness,  and  tried  to  carry  off'  a 
sensation  something  resembling  shame,  by  remarking 
that,  though  such  scenery  was  not  to  our  English  eyes 


212  BLANCHE. 

picturesque,  it  was  very  like  "  la  belle  France.  The 
day  was  gray  and  colourless :  there  were  no  gleams  of 
sunshine,  no  passing  shadows,  which  will  invest  any  ex- 
tensive view  with  a  certain  degree  of  beauty.  The 
wheat  was  all  green,  the  barley  was  green,  the  oats  were 
green,  the  tares  were  green,  the  clover  was  green  ;  there 
was  no  variety  of  hue,  except  where,  here  and  there,  a 
field  lay  fallow,  or  had  been  newly  ploughed  up. 

De  Molton  looked  cheerlessly  upon  Blanche's  spirit- 
less face,  and  fairly  wished  the  first  evening  in  their  new 
domicil  come  and  gone.  Blanche  wished,  upon  her 
arrival,  to  be  able  to  say  she  found  it  better  than  she 
expected,  but  the  words  died  away  upon  her  lips.  She 
walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
straight  street.  There  was  the  lawyer's  house  opposite, 
with  a  brass  knocker  well  polished ;  then  came  the  Sun 
Inn,  all  nevi^,  and  red,  and  staring  ;  then  a  paltry  shop ; 
and  then  the  apothecary's  door,  surmounted  by  a  gilt 
pestle  and  mortar.  The  road  was  dusty,  and  the  cut 
lime-trees  before  the  houses  on  the  other  side  of  the  law- 
yer's were  rather  whitish-brown  than  green.  The  street 
ran  north  and  south ;  a  gust  of  wind  drove  down  it 
from  the  north,  which  gave  the  poor  leaves  a  fresh  coat- 
ing before  her  eyes. 

It  was  as  cold  as  days  sometimes  are  in  June :  she 
turned  from  the  window,  and  proposed  a  fire ;  they  both 
dreaded  the  attempt,  but  it  succeeded,  and  there  was  no 
smoke. 

Blanche  wished  the  days  were  not  so  long,  that  they 
might  sooner  let  down  the  green  Venetian  blinds  (there 
were  no  shutters),  draw  the  short  and  scanty  white  cur- 
tains, and  shut  out  the  dismal  prospect.  She  tried  to 
place  the  furniture  in  such  positions  as  to  give  the  room 
an  inhabited  appearance,  but  she  only  succeeded  in 
making  it  look  untidy.  The  little  dimity-covered  chaise- 
longue  was  wheeled  out  from  the  wall,  and  placed  be- 
tween the  fire  and  the  window,  till  they  found  that  so 
sharp  a  draught  cut  across  from  the  ill-closed  sashes,  that 
it  was  quickly  wheeled  back  to  its  original  situation.  A 
card-table  was  set  open,  and  made  to  enact  the  part  of  a 


BLANCHE.  213 

stand  for  'petits  objets.  Blanche  collected  all  her  bas- 
kets and  boxes,  in  hopes  of  making  the  apartment  look 
comfortable,  but  her  efforts  were  not  as  yet  crowned 
with  success. 

The  next  day  she  bought  a  square  of  dark  red  cloth, 
and  she  bound  it  with  gold-coloured  binding,  and  with  it 
concealed  a  great  portion  of  the  card-table,  and  set  off 
to  better  advantage  the  chef-d'ceuvi-es  of  art  and  the 
souvenirs  of  sentiment.  The  armchair,  the  dear  arm- 
chair, was  unpacked  ;  and  the  buhl  clock,  it  was  hoped 
by  both  of  them,  would  be  a  redeeming  object. 

Alas  !  there  was  no  part  of  the  room  in  which  the 
buhl  clock  could  be  safely  and  advantageously  placed  ! 
The  little  chimney  piece  was  infinitely  too  narrow;  the 
card-table  was  already  filled  ;  and  the  one  other  table 
which  was  not  in  constant  requisition  was  by  far  too 
rickety  to  be  intrusted  with  so  precious  an  article. 

At  length  the  small  souvenirs  were  removed  to  the 
rickety  table,  and  the  clock  was  established  upon  the 
card-table ;  and  De  Molton,  when  he  looked  upon  his 
wife  with  her  child  upon  her  knee,  saw  no  fault  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  room. 

There  was,  however,  one  misfortune  to  which  even 
De  Molton  could  not  close  his  eyes  or  bar  his  senses, — 
a  misfortune,  too,  which  was  utterly  irremediable. 

A  kind  of  fixture, — half  cupboard,  half  book-case, — 
the  lower  part  of  which  opened  like  a  cupboard,  while 
the  top  finished  in  shelves,  adorned  each  side  of  the  fire- 
place. Now,  in  the  lower  part  of  one  of  these  nonde- 
script things  there  was  every  reason  to  believe  the 
predecessors  of  the  De  Moltons  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  apples.  When  the  room  was  closed,  this  dire 
smell  of  apples  assailed  their  noses,  and  at  length  it  was 
traced  home  to  the  guilty  spot. 

Chloruret  of  lime,  eau  de  Cologne,  every  sort  of  fumi- 
gation was  tried,  but  the  indomitable  smell  was  only 
quelled  for  the  time :  it  returned  with  fresh  vigour ! 
Blanche  was  in  utter  despair,  for  Lady  Falkingham  was 
expected  in  a  day  or  two,  and  she  was  renowned  for  the 
extreme   acute ncss  of  her  olfactory  nerves !     Blanche 


214  BLANCHE. 

had  repressed  any  expression  of  her  feelings,  till  this  last 
blow  quite  overcome  her  fortitude. 

"  Can  nothing  be  done  about  this  smell,  Frank  ?  It 
will  distract  mamma !" 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not  know  what  more  to  recom- 
mend. Let  us  wash  it  again  with  chloruret  of  lime  just 
before  your  mother  comes." 

"  I  would  not  mind  all  the  rest  if  we  could  but  get  rid 
of  this  smell  of  apples  !" 

That  expression,  "  all  the  rest,"  spoke  volumes.  De 
Molton  was  fully  aware  how  much  it  implied  of  discom- 
fort. 

Love  in  a  cottage  is  a  thing  very  frequently  met  with 
in  books,  and  not  unfrequently  in  actual  life ;  but  love  in 
a  red  brick  house  in  the  street  of  a  country  town  can 
never  exist  in  poetry,  and  seldom  in  reality. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  would  fain  alter,  Frank,  and  I 
think  it  might  be  accomplished  without  much  expense." 

Blanche  spoke  timidly,  for  she  had  learned  to  be  afraid 
of  proposing  any  thing  which  he  might  deem  extrava- 
gant. "  Could  we  not  get  rid  of  the  knocker  on  the 
door  ?  It  looks  dreadful ;  but  the  horrid  vulgar  sound 
is  worse  than  the  appearance.  It  is  impossible  to  forget 
where  one  is,  when  one  hears  that  rap-a-tap !" 

De  Molton  sighed  to  think  she  should  so  wish  to  for- 
get that  she  was  in  her  home,  with  her  husband  and  her 
child ;  and  Blanche,  two  years  before,  would  not  have 
believed  she  could  ever  be  otherwise  than  contented, 
when  certain  of  De  Molton's  constancy,  of  his  undivided 
affection,  and  when  united  to  him  by  the  holiest  ties. 

The  day  arrived  on  which  tiie  almost  dreaded  parental 
visit  was  to  be  paid.  De  Molton  proposed  driving  to  a 
nursery  garden  at  no  great  distance,  and  buying  some 
flowers,  which  would  make  the  room  look  rather  more 
gay  and  countryfied.  To  this  Blanche  gladly  assented  ; 
and  she  took  great  pains  to  fill  all  the  little  ugly  vases 
upon  the  chimneypiece,  and  all  the  finger-glasses  which 
were  not  wanted  after  dinner,  with  such  flowers  as  could 
be  procured.  They  had  arranged  every  thing  for  the 
accomm.odation  of  Lord  and  Lady  Falkingham  as  well 


BLANCHE.  215 

as  the  capabilities  of  the  house  permitted.  Blanche's 
maid  was  turned  out  of  her  room,  and  into  the  nursery, 
for  Lady  Falkingham's  maid ;  an  arrangement  which 
by  no  means  met  with  her  approbation,  and  which  had 
not  been  accomplished  without  considerable  difficulty. 

De  Molton  relinquished  his  dressing-room  to  his  father- 
in-law,  and  unknown  to  any  one,  as  he  hoped,  performed 
his  toilet  very  early  in  the  morning  in  the  dining-room  ; 
the  little  back-parlour  having  been  consecrated  to  the 
ladies'  maids,  and  any  thing  being  more  practicable  than 
to  interfere  with  their  morning  repast. 

Both  Blanche  and  De  Molton  had  looked  repeatedly 
into  each  room,  and  had  ascertained  that  every  thing 
was  as  comfortable  as  they  could  make  it,  and  they  sat 
waiting  in  some  agitation  for  the  arrival  of  their  guests. 

Generally  speaking,  if  there  is  a  moment  of  unmixed 
happiness,  it  is  that  in  which  parents  pay  their  first  visit 
to  a  married  child,  and  in  which  children  receive  the 
first  visit  from  their  parents. 

The  pretty,  half-childish,  half-matronly  pride  with 
which  the  young  wife  does  the  honours  of  her  domestic 
arrangements  ;  the  tearful  joy  of  the  mother  as  she  in- 
spects and  admires  ;  the  honest  happiness  of  the  father  ; 
and  the  modest  exultation  of  the  bridegroom  who  has 
installed  the  creature  he  loves  in  all  the  comforts  with 
which  she  is  surrounded, — render  the  moment  one  of 
pleasing  interest  to  the  most  careless  bystander. 

But  such  were  not  the  feelings  which  animated  any  of 
the  present  party. 


216 


BLANCHE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Some  difference  of  this  dangerous  kind, 
By  which,  though  Hght,  the  links  that  bind 
The  fondest  hearts  may  soon  be  riven  ; 
Some  shadow  in  love's  summer  heaven, 
Which,  though  a  fleecy  cloud  at  first, 
May  yet  in  awful  thunders  burst. 

Lalla  Roukh. 

The  Falkinghams  did  not  arrive  till  very  late.  Blanche 
knew  that  every  moment's  delay  was  injurious  to  the  re- 
past she  was  so  anxious  should  be  tolerably  well  dressed. 
She  several  times  ran  down  into  the  kitchen  herself,  to 
enforce  upon  the  cook  that  she  must  contrive  to  keep 
back  the  dinner  without  letting  the  meat  be  over- 
roasted. 

At  length  they  heard  a  great  rumbling  of  wheels,  and 
hallooing  of  little  boys,  and  the  well-known  carriage, 
with  four  horses,  drove  rapidly  by,  and  drew  up  at  the 
Sun  Inn  opposite.  The  postillions  were  soon  directed 
to  the  right  house;  the  whole  equipage  was  turned  round, 
and  at  length  drew  up  before  the  little  door. 

All  this  caused  a  sensation  ;  and  well  crepe  d  heads 
were  seen  popping  up  above  the  v/hite  blinds  of  the 
lawyer's  opposite,  and  frilled  caps  appeared  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  house  with  the  cut  lime-trees,  and  waiters, 
chambermaids,  and  boots,  thronged  to  the  door  of  the 
inn,  hoping  the  coroneted  carriage  was  going  to  put  up 
at  the  Sun. 

The  first  greetings  were  over,  and  Blanche  was  eager 
to  show  her  mother  to  her  room,  for,  "  on  hospitable 
thoughts  intent,"  she  was  reflecting  on  the  over-boiled 
chickens  and  the  over-roasted  beef.  But  their  progress 
was  arrested   by  the  imperial !     It  was  stuck  in  the 


BLANCHE*  217 

Viirning  of  the  stairs  ;  and  Lady  Falkingham's  tall  foot- 
man, who  measured  six  feet  two  inches  and  a  half,  and 
De  Molton's  omnipresent  John  Benton,  were  struggling, 
and  lifting,  and  pushing,  and  shoving  in  vain  ! 

This  was  an  unlooked-for  misfortune  ;  one  which 
might  have  been  laughed  at,  among  people  so  nearly  and 
intimately  connected,  and  one  which  might  have  been 
an  excuse  for  dining  very  m.errily  in  travelling  costume  ; 
but  with  Blanche's  feelings,  with  Lady  Falkingham's, 
with  De  Molton's  feelings,  the  misadventure  had  a  con- 
trary effect.  Blanche  was  extremely  annoyed,  and  led 
her  mother  back  to  the  drawing-room  ;  while  De  Mo'- 
ton  hastened  to  lend  his  assistance,  and  with  the  help  of 
his  more  judicious  mode  of  turning  the  imperial,  it  was 
extricated  from  its  inconvenient  position,  and  was  safelv 
deposited  in  Lady  Falkingham's  room. 

All  this  produced  some  delay  ;  then  came  their  re- 
spective toilets-;  and  they  were  not  seated  in  the  dining- 
room  till  an  hour  and  three  quarters  after  the  cook  bad 
expected  to  "  dish  up." 

It  requires  the  coolness,  the  presence  of  mind,  the 
decision  of  the  bolder  sex,  to  be  able  to  accelerate  or  to  • 
retard  the  dinner-hour.  The  humble  cook  of  the  De 
Moltons  was  thoroughly  feminine  in  her  timidity,  and  the 
consequence  was,  that  the  chickens  fell  to  pieces  in  the 
dish,  that  the  beef  craclded  under  the  teeth,  that  the  po- 
tatoes were  watery  and  sodden,  that  the  green-gages  of 
the  pudding  had  burst  through  their  surrounding  paste, 
and  presented  a  shapeless,  confused,  and  uninviting  mass 
to  the  eye,  while  the  maccaroni  was  stringy,  strong,  and 
burned. 

De  Molton  had  wished  the  dinner  to  be  plain  and 
without  pretension,  and  he  had  flattered  himself  that,  by 
attempting  nothing,  they  must  be  secure  from  failure. 
Alas !  they  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  both  their 
guests  scarcely  able  to  finisli  what  they  had  upon  their 
plates,  and  of  perceiving  that  Lord  Falkingham  helped 
himself  three  times  to  cheese,  and  that  Lady  Falkingham 
demolished  full  half  the  sponge-cake  at  dessert !  De 
Molton,  who  was  habitually  reserved  and  possessed  much 

VOL,  II. T 


218  SLANCHE. 

self-command,  maintained  a  calm  exterior  ;  but  Blanche, 
who,  whatever  might  be  her  wish  to  do  so,  was  never 
able  to  conceal  her  feelings  for  any  length  of  time,  was 
in  a  state  of  fussy  agitation,  and  was  the  first  to  complain 
of  the  badness  of  the  dinner. 

Her  remarks  disturbed  the  equanimity  of  John  Benton, 
who  was  most  anxious  that  all  should  go  off  well.  In 
his  eagerness,  he  made  more  noise,  jarred  the  plates^ 
knocked  the  glasses  together,  clattered  the  knives  and 
forks,  and  placed  the  dishes  on  the  table  in  a  more  fear- 
ful undecided  manner  than  he  was  ever  known  to  do 
before  ;  constantly  brushing  by  Lady  Falkingham's  cap 
to  give  a  finishing  touch  to  the  arrangement  of  the  table, 
Blanche's  martyrdom  increased  every  moment ! 

It  is  very  easy  to  be  tranquil,  composed,  and  agree- 
able at  the  head  of  one's  table,  if  one  has  the  comfort- 
able assurance  that  all  will  proceed  properly  and  deco- 
rously ;  but  when  one  has  no  reliance  that  such  will  be 
the  case,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  preserve  the  careless  air  of 
perfect  good-breeding ;  still  less  so,  should  one  actually 
-see  one's  guests  hungry  and  incommoded:  such  tran- 
quillity amounts  to  a  lofty  pitch  of  stoicism  scarcely 
attainable  by  common  mortals. 

If  the  Falkinghams  had  smiled  good-humouredly,  it 
might  have  been  better ;  but  the  mother  preserved  a 
civil  semblance  of  not  perceiving  what  was  amiss,  evi- 
dently treating  the  present  as  the  best  entertainment  it 
was  in  the  power  of  the  De  Moltons  to  give,  and  con- 
siderately sparing  their  feelings.  When  the  ladies  retired 
after  dinner,  Lady  Falkingham  made  no  allusion  to  the 
house,  the  establishment,  the  cookery,  or  any  part  of  the 
jninage,  except  the  baby,  on  whose  growth  she  expa- 
tiated, and  whom  she  wished  to  see  in  its  crib. 

Blanche  accordingly  took  her  mother  up-stairs  to  the 
garret,  where  Lady  Falkingham  was  shocked  at  finding 
two  beds  in  the  small  room.  "  My  dear  Blanche,  do 
you  allow  two  people  to  sleep  in  such  an  apartment  as 
this  ?  It  is  very  bad  for  the  baby  to  be  so  confined  as 
to  air  and  space." 


BLANCHE.  219 

^^  My  maid  sleeps  here  just  now/'  Blanche  replied  ;  "  it 
cannot  hurt  the  baby  for  a  little  while." 

"  The  weather  is  so  hot,  I  own  I  should  dislike  it  very 
much  ;  I  always  was  very  particular  about  giving  you  all 
a  very  airy  nursery  ; — but  1  suppose  it  cannot  be  helped," 
added  Lady  Falkingham,  checking  herself. 

"  Oh,  this  house  is  horrid  !"  exclaimed  Blanche  ;  "  if 
you  had  but  come  to  see  us  in  our  Devonshire  cottage, 
mamma — " 

"  I  wish  I  had,  my  dear." 

••  But  you  know  we  have  this  only  for  a  time,  mamma  ; 
and  next  year  we  may  be  quartered  in  a  prettier  country, 
and  a  nicer  neighbourhood,  and  where  we  can  get  some- 
thing, out  of  a  town," 

"I  hope  you  will,  my  love,"  replied  Lady  Falkingham, 
who  was  resolved  to  dwell  as  little  as  possible  upon  her 
daughter's  present  discomfort,  and  who  thought  herself 
%ery  kind  and  very  meritorious  in  not  saying  what  she 
thought,  felt,  and  looked — viz.  "  I  told  you  how  it  would 
be." 

The  breakfast  was  not  more  prosperous.  The  bread 
was  baker's  bread ;  the  French  rolls,  well  rasped  and 
very  tough,  were  exceedingly  unlike  the  rolls  and  cakes 
of  every  variety  whielf  graced  the  breakfast-table  of 
Temple  Loseley.  The  butter  was  bought  at  the  shop  ; 
and  Turton  was  situated  in  an  arable,  not  a  grazing  coun- 
try :  they  churned  every  morning  at  Temple  Loseley. 
The  cream  was  thin,  colourless,  and  tasteless :  the  Alder- 
neys  at  Temple  Loseley  were  renowned  for  their  perfec- 
tion in  beauty  and  breeding. 

Most  assuredly,  urban  and  rural  poverty  are  very  dif- 
ferent things.  With  a  pretty  garden — with  flowers,  poul- 
try, cream,  butter,  eggs,  and  vegetables  in  profusion — 
vulgarity  and  discomfort  may  always  be  avoided,  though 
splendour  may  not  be  attained. 

The  Falkingliams  went  away,  sincerely  commiserating 
their  daughter,  although  Lady  Falkingliam's  sincere  sor- 
row was  somewhat  alleviated  by  being  able  to  remark  to 
her  husband  how  precisely  every  thing  had  turned  out  as 
she  had  foreseen  and  predicted. 


220  BLANCHE. 

When  they  had  driven  from  the  door,  Blanche  sal 
down  to  work  at  her  needle,  with  a  sensation  of  depres- 
sion more  overwhelming  than  she  had  ever  felt  before, 
*'  I  am  glad  mamma  is  gone  !"  she  exclaimed,  after  having 
hemmed  nearly  a  yard  of  muslin  without  uttering  a  word  ; 
"  when  people  are  no  longer  young,  they  miss  the  com- 
forts to  which  they  have  been  accustomed !" 

De  Molton  said  nothing.  He  also  had  been  deeply 
hurt — mortified  in  every  way ;  hurt  to  see  his  wife  ex- 
posed to  mortification,  and  mortified  to  see  her  feel  it  so 
keenly. 

"Not  but  what  mamma  behaved  beautifully,"  continued 
Blanche,  for  she  was  half  angry  with  her  husband  for  his  - 
very  silence :  she  wished  him  to  declare  how  annoyed 
and  unhappy  he  also  was ;  but  he  was  a  proud  man,  and 
when  such  a  man  does  feel  mortification,  it  does  not  find 
vent  in  words.  Being  somewhat  displeased  at  his  silence, 
she  did  not  spare  him.  The  feelings  of  the  daughter  got  • 
the  better  of  those  of  the  wife,  and  she  proceeded  : 
'■  Mamma  never  complained  of  any  thing.  It  w^as  only 
through  her  maid  that  I  heard  she  could  not  sleep  a  wink 
on  account  of  the  baby  crying  over  head ;  and,  the  par- 
tition being  so  thin,  she  heard  her  as  plainly  as  if  she  had 
been  in  the  same  room.  Mamma  was  very  kind  ;  she 
took  care  to  say  nothing  to  vex  rae." 

De  Molton  thought  mamma  would  have  been  infinitely 
more  kind  if  she  had  appeared  a  little  less  miserable,  and 
had  not  looked  at  Blanche  as  if  she  thought  her  a  victim. 
He  did  not  feel  in  charity  with  Lady  Falkingham  ;  he 
found  no  pleasure  in  hearing  her  praised. 

"  I  am  going  to  call  on  Colonel  Jones,"  said  De  Molton  ; 
"  I  shall  be  at  home  again  in  time  to  walk  with  you/' 
He  took  his  cap  and  his  stick,  and  sallied  forth ;  but  he 
had  walked  far  beyond  Colonel  Jones's  before  he  recol- 
lected his  intention  of  calling  upon  him,  and  he  had  to 
retrace  his  steps  for  some  quarter  of  a  mile.  He  found 
him  just  returning  from  a  long  walk  with  some  of  his 
children,  who  were  joyously  sporting  around  him  ;  and 
they  all  together  mounted  the  narrow  staircase,  which  led 


BLANCHE.  231 

to  a  drawing-room  much  in  the  same  style  as  Blanche's, 
though  somewhat  larger  in  its  dimensions. 

Mrs.  Jones  and  her  eldest  girl  were  busily  engaged  in 
needle-work,  while  the  second  daughter  was  reading  his- 
tory aloud.  She  cordially  greeted  De  Molton,  and  said 
they  had  been  taking  advantage  of  the  colonel's  having 
cleared  the  house  of  the  boys,  to  get  on  with  the  educa- 
tion of  the  girls ;  "  for  in  a  small  house,  and  with  such  a 
family,  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  quiet  moment,"  added  Mrs. 
Jones,with  a  cheerfulness  and  good-humourwhich  seemed 
to  prove  she  found  nothing  unpleasant  or  disgraceful  in 
poverty. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  country  curate,  and  although 
well  educated,  and  tolerably  well  born,  she  did  not  feel 
the  want  of  elegances  and  luxuries  to  which  she  had 
never  been  accustomed,  and  which  none  of  those  with 
whom  she  associated  missed  any  more  than  herself. 

De  Molton  wished  he  could  teach  his  wife  to  accom- 
modate herself  to  her  circumstances  as  Mrs.  Jones  did. 
But  how  many  habits  had  she  to  unlearn  and  to  forget 
before  she  could  be  as  happy  as  Mrs.  Jones  was  happy. 

He  resolved  to  cultivate  the  Joneses,  and  he  asked 
them  to  dinner  that  very  day,  frankly  bidding  them  come 
and  feast  upon  the  remains  of  the  provisions  they  had  laid 
in  for  his  father  and  mother-in-law.  The  happy  and 
good-humoured  Joneses  accepted  the  invitation  in  the 
same  unceremonious  spirit  in  which  it  was  made,  and 
De  Molton  returned  home  to  inform  his  wife  of  the  com- 
pany she  might  expect.  She  detested  the  thought  of 
encountering  another  dinner  in  her  own  house  ;  but  De 
Molton  was  not  a  person  who  would  ever  condescend 
to  ask  his  wife's  permission  before  he  invited  a  friend  to 
dinner,  and  of  that  she  was  fully  aware. 

The  Joneses  arrived  just  five  minutes  before  the  ap- 
pointed hour ;  and  Mrs.  Jones  asked  Blanche's  leave  to 
take  off  her  bonnet  and  ari-ange  her  hair  at  her  looking- 
glass,  as  she  had  walked  from  her  own  house.  She 
shortly  reappeared,  with  her  bows  and  her  ringlets  in  the 
most  perfect  order ;  for  she  had  never  been  in  the  habit 
of  depending  upon  the  services  of  a  maid.     She  also 

t2 


222  BLAKCHE. 

appeared  in  a  smart  silk  gown ;  her  fair,  fat,  handsome 
arms  uncovered,  a  necklace  on  her  neck,  and  ear-rings 
in  her  ears. 

Blanche,  on  the  contrary,  was  in  a  more  seemly  cos- 
tume for  a  country  dinner  by  daylight :  and  Mrs.  Jones 
wondered  her  hostess  should  wear,  in  the  evening,  what 
seemed  to  her  a  morning  dress. 

The  cook's  nerves  had  not  been  agitated,  and  the  din- 
ner vi^as  very  good.  Colonel  Jones  was  gay  and  con- 
versable ;  he  had  served  in  the  Peninsula ;  he,  and  his 
wife  also,  had  been  at  Paris  when  the  allied  armies  en- 
tered it ;  they  had  seen  many  different  countries,  had 
been  mixed  up  in  many  of  the  events  of  that  period,  when 
every  day  brought  changes  w  hich  affected  empires ;  they 
had  been  thrown  with  many  of  the  personages  who  ai- 
rsady  figure  as  historical  characters.  They  were  delighted 
with  De  Molton,  who  was  an  excellent  listener ;  delighted 
with  Lady  Blanche,  who  possessed  the  charm  to  which 
all  people  in  all  ranks  are  sensible — the  real  good  breed- 
ing of  real  high  fashion ;  and  Blanche  was  astonished  to 
find  herself  in  better  spirits  than  she  had  been  in  for 
some  days. 

No  fund  of  natural  spirits,  however  inexhaustible  it 
may  be,  can  stand  the  trial  of  seeing  the  guests  under 
your  roof  cold,  abstracted,  and  comfortless  ;  whereas  the 
phrenologists  could  certainly  point  out  some  organ  in  the 
human  head  which  takes  pleasure  in  being  developed 
when  you  feel  that  those  towards  whom  you  are  exer- 
cising the  rites  of  hospitality  are  really  and  thoroughly 
enjoying  themselves. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  broad  humour  about  Colonel 
Jones,  and  no  shyness  ;  he  was  animated  in  his  descrip- 
tions. De  Molton's  wine  was  good  of  its  sort,  and  the 
dinner  was  gay — noisily  gay.  Blanche  thought  them  a 
httle  vulgar,  but  still  she  liked  them  both  ;  and  after  the 
cheerless  restraint  which  had  prevailed  during  the  two 
preceding  days  betvveen  the  nearest  and  dearest  relations, 
there  was  something  which  expanded  the  heart  in  the 
•warmth  and  cordiality  of  the  Joneses. 

The  dinner  which  they  gave  the  De  Moltons  in  return 


BLANCHE.  S33 

proved  less  agreeable.  The  astonishing  clatter  made  by 
the  servants,  the  badness  of  the  cookery,  the  multitude 
of  children,  and  the  friends  who  were  invited  to  make  up 
the  party,  did  not  conduce  to  reconcile  Blanche  to  the 
real  work-day  details  of  poverty,  as  De  Molton  had  at  first 
intended  it  should,  by  showing  her  how  happy  people 
could  be  in  its  despite. 

The  summer  wore  away,  but  without  any  summer  en- 
joyments ;  the  autumn  succeeded,  and  winter  followed  in 
due  succession.  They  had  many  invitations  from  differ- 
ent friends,  but  travelling  was  expensive ;  and  having 
been  in  London  for  some  months  during  the  spring,  they 
could  not  obtain  leave  of  absence  for  any  length  of  time 
which  might  make  it  answer  to  leave  home. 

The  following  year  saw  them  removed  to  a  fresh  habi- 
tation, and  saw  another  olive  branch  added  to  the  parent 
stock. 

The  nurse  now  professed  her  inability  to  attend  to  two 
children,  "  both  babies,  as  it  were  ;  she  could  not  do  jus- 
tice to  the  dear  little  loves.  Miss  Emma,  she  was  just 
old  enough  to  get  into  mischief;  and  she  was  more  work, 
a  body  might  say,  than  the  infant  himself."'  There  was 
no  denying  the  reason  and  truth  of  the  nurse's  statement. 
It  was  also  true,  as  the  nurse  added,  "that  my  lady  was 
very  particular,  and  liked  to  see  the  children  always  nice  ; 
that  it  was  not  as  if  she  did  not  mind  their  being  just 
dressed  in  brown  hoUand  pinafores  and  such  like,  as  the 
little  Masters  Jones  were ;  that,  for  her  part,  she  could 
not  a-bear  to  see  children  look  so — ^just  like  anybody's 
children." 

De  Molton,  as  well  as  Blanche,  was  proud  of  little 
Emma's  exquisite  beauty,  and  they  could  neither  of  them 
endure  the  thought  of  their  childien  not  being  thoroughly 
well  taken  care  of.  "  Could  you  not  ask  Mrs.  Green  to 
help  nurse?"  suggested  De  Molton  ;  "she  might  walk 
out  with  Emma,  and  might  make  her  clothes.  Our  life 
is  such  a  quiet  one,  surely  she  must  have  a  great  deal  of 
time  upon  her  hands." 

Blanche  stood  rather  in  awe  of  Mrs.  Green,  who  was 
a  regular  fine  lady,  and  who  felt  the  change  in  her  situa- 


224  BLANCHE. 

tion  to  the  full  as  acutely  as  Blanche  herself  could  do, 
and  who  had  not  the  same  strong  motive  for  bearing  it 
with  uncomplaining  fortitude,  inasmuch  as  she  was  not 
married  to  the  man  of  her  choice,  neither  had  she  any 
character  for  consistency  to  maintain.  In  many  of  the 
minor  distresses  and  difficulties  which  had  occurred,  Mrs. 
Green  had  not  failed  to  make  her  mistress  feel  how  great 
was  her  merit  in  submitting  to  them ;  and  Blanche  knew 
it  was  utterly  impossible  to  accomplish  what  De  Molton 
(who  was  not  so  well  versed  in  the  nice  limits  and  bound- 
aries of  the  honourable  office  of  lady's  maid)  thought 
could  be  so  easily  arranged. 

"It  is  quite  impossible,  my  dear  Frank  !  Green  has  al- 
ready put  up  with  a  great  deal  to  oblige  me,  and  I  could 
not  ask  her  to  wait  upon  the  nursery." 

"  I  do  not  want  her  to  wait  upon  the  nursery,  but  she 
might  assist  the  nurse." 

"  I  can  part  with  her,  Frank ;  but  I  cannot  propose  to 
her  to  attend  upon  the  children." 

De  Molton,  who  saw  no  reason  why  one  woman  should 
sit  idle,  while  another  had  more  to  do  than  she  could 
well  perform,  was  half  annoyed  with  Blanche,  and  he 
answered  rather  quickly,  "  AH  I  can  say  is,  I  cannot 
aftbrd  to  keep  another  servant." 

'•'  I  will  tell  Green  what  you  say,"  replied  Blanche,  with 
the  tone  of  a  heroine  and  a  martyr ;  and  accordingly 
she  lost  no  time  in  informing  Green  that  she  must  look 
out  for  another  situation  unless  she  would  wait  on  Miss 
Emma,  as  Captain  De  Molton  wished  ;  and  as,  of  course, 
Mrs.  Green  declined  to  do. 

So  much  separated  from  all  former  connections,  friends, 
and  relations,  as  Blanche  had  been  of  late,  she  naturally 
felt  a  good  deal  annoyed  at  parting  with  a  person  whom 
habit  had  rendered  agreeable  to  her,  who  was  an  excel- 
lent lady's  maid,  and  was  pleasing  in  her  manners.  De 
Molton  could  not  sympathize  in  her  annoyance  at  getting 
rid  of  a  fine  lady,  and  infinitely  preferred  the  stout  good- 
humoured  girl  who  came  in  her  stead,  and  who  was  too 
happy  to  fetch  and  carry,  and  was  too  much  honoured 
by  being  allowed  to  wait  upon  my  lady. 


BLANCHE.  225 

Unfortunately,  the  last  remnant  of  Blanche's  trousseau 
was  growing  very  shabby,  and  her  wardrobe  needed  re- 
cruithig.  Green  was  gone  ;  the  girl  Phebe  was  no  mil- 
liner ;  Blanche  could  embroider  beautifully,  and  she 
could  now  accomplish  children's  frocks  with  considerable 
success,  but  she  could  not  make  her  own  clothes.  How 
should  she?  She  was  obliged  therefore  to  have  her 
wants  supplied  by  the  country  milliners,  and  both  she 
and  De  Molton  were  appalled  at  the  bills  which  were 
the  inevitable  consequence. 

Blanche  wished  exceedingly  not  to  be  expensive,  but 
she  knew  not  how  to  avoid  being  so.  She  had  never 
had  any  allowance  when  a  girl :  she  had  been  so  amply 
supplied  with  every  article  of  dress  upon  her  marriage, 
and  had  since  led  so  retired  a  life,  that  little  occasion  to 
spend  money  had  occurred  until  now;  and  she  was  igno- 
rant how  miraculously,  when  once  the  purse-strings  are 
opened,  the  contents  vanish  as  it  were  of  themselves. 

It  is  a  great  fault  in  the  education  of  girls,  to  omit 
teaching  them,  in  some  measure,  the  value  of  money. 
They  suddenly  find  themselves  at  the  head  of  an  estab- 
lishment, in  which,  if  large,  considerable  sums  pass 
through  their  hands ;  if  small,  on  them  depends  the  com- 
fort or  discomfort  of  the  'menage  ;  and  they  are  not 
aware  (except  from  theory,  which  has  little  to  say  to 
practice)  that  twenty  shillings  make  a  pound. 

The  loss  of  Green  was  an  annoyance  of  daily  recur- 
rence. Blanche  could  not  dress  her  own  hair ;  and  the 
awkward  attempts  of  the  shy  and  frightened  red-fisted 
maid  to  brush  and  to  curl,  to  braid  and  to  creper,  made 
her  every  morning  come  down  to  breakfast  in  a  ruffled 
and  uncomfortable  state.  She  found  it  necessary  now 
and  then  to  buy  herself  a  cap,  and  unluckily  the  bill  for 
these  caps  came  in  at  a  time  when  De  Molton's  finances 
were  at  a  very  low  ebb.  Blanche  had  no  pin-money, 
and  she  applied  to  him  for  the  retjuisite  sum. 

"What  nonsense,  Blanche,  to  buy  tawdry  caps,  when 
you  have  all  that  beautiful  brown  hair,  which  is  so  much 
prettier  and  more  becoming  than  any  cap  that  can  be 
made." 


226  BLANCHE. 

"  I  never  learned  to  dress  hair ;  and  since  Green  is 
gone,  I  find  it  impossible  to  do  without  a  cap.  I  have 
not  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  go  about  a  perfect  figure 
yet ;  but  1  dare  say  I  soon  shall.  It  is  impossible  to  be 
well  dressed  without  a  maid." 

*'But  surely  you  could  soon  learn  to  arrange  your 
hair.  You  told  me  Mrs.  Jones  always  dressed  her  own, 
and  I  am  sure  it  is  very  smart — in  bows,  and  all  kinds  of 
things." 

This  was  too  much  for  Blanche  to  endure.  To  have 
been  forced  to  part  with  her  maid !  To  be  refused  a 
cap  !  To  be  twitted  with  Mrs.  Jones  !  To  have  Mrs. 
Jones  set  up  as  a  pattern  !  "  Indeed  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  look  like  Mrs.  Jones !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
heightened  colour,  and  an  eye  which  was  very  beautiful 
in  its  increased  brilliancy :  "  if  you  wished  to  have  a 
wife  who  should  look  and  dress  hke  Mrs.  Jones,  you 
should  not  have  selected  me  !  I  hope  I  may  never  ar- 
rive at  such  a  pitch  of  vulgarity  as  that !  1  had  rather 
look  like  anybody  in  the  whole  world  than  Mrs.  Jones  !'■ 
and  in  her  anger  and  petulance,  she  spoke  as  she  would 
not  have  done  in  a  cooler  moment,  of  a  person  whom 
she  both  respected  and  liked. 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  a  most  excellent  and  exemplary  wo- 
man," replied  De  Molton,  with  some  solemnity  of  man- 
ner; "one  who  performs  the  duties  of  her  situation  in 
life  cheerfully  and  admirably.  I  have  a  very  great  re- 
gard for  Mrs.  Jones.  Where  is  this  bill?"  he  added, 
with  an  awful  calmness  :  "  I  am  sorry  to  say  you  must 
buy  no  more  caps.  I  have  not  the  means  of  paying  for 
them  !"  He  gave  her  the  money,  which  she  took  with 
pain  and  indignation. 

It  is  very  disagreeable  to  ask  for  money, — very  dis- 
agreeable to  receive  it  when  it  is  given  grudgingly. 
Women  should  have  settled  upon  them  when  they  marry 
the  sum  which,  in  proportion  to  the  income  of  their  hus- 
band, they  may  in  fairne.^s  spend  upon  their  dress  ; 
otherwise,  if  extravagant,  there  are  no  regular  limits  to 
their  extravagance ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  however 
economical  they  may  be,  and  however  hberal  the  hus- 


BLANCHE.  227 

band  may  w'  h  to  be,  they  may  chance  to  ask  for  money 
at  a  moment  when  it  may  prove  inconvenient  to  produce 
a  sum  which  the  man  had  not  calculated  would  be  called 
for  at  that  particular  moment. 

An  expression  of  annoyance  will  wound  and  distress 
a  high-minded  woman,  will  anger  a  high-spirited  one,  or 
will  induce  a  timid  one  to  conceal  her  bills,  and  to  ac- 
quire the  habit  of  contracting  debts  unknown  to  her  hus- 
band. 

Blanche  received  the  money  with  a  swelling  indignant 
heart,  and  her  feelings  were  not  soothed  when  a  trades- 
man entered  with  a  long  bill,  for  which  De  Molton  drew 
a  draft  without  a  remark  or  a  murmur,  and  most  politely 
dismissed  the  man,  pleased  with  his  exactness  and  punc- 
tuality. 

Blanche  thought,  "  After  all,  he  is  not  really  so  poor 
as  he  pretends  to  be.  He  only  talks  thus  to  prevent  my 
spending  any  thing.     He  has  money  for  every  one  else." 

De  Molton  had  appointed  that  very  morning  to  pay 
that  very  bill.  He  had  purposely  reserved  the  requisite 
sum,  and  he  remained  with  scarcely  enough  for  the 
weekly  unavoidable  expenses.  But  he  did  not  explain 
all  this  to  his  wife.  He  w^as  resolved  never  to  run  into 
debt,  and  he  was  unapproachably  serious  and  correct 
upon  the  subject.  If  he  had  candidly  explained  the  state 
of  the  case  to  her,  shown  it  her  in  black  and  white,  per- 
haps she  would  have  joined  with  him  in  cheerfully  ac- 
commodating herself  to  existing  circumstances ;  but  he 
dealt  in  general  expressions  of  poverty  and  distress,  and 
yet,  at  the  moment  he  complained  most  bitterly,  the 
money  was  forthcoming  for  those  things  which  must  be 
paid  for.  It  was  exactly  because  he  would  have  where- 
withal to  meet  necessary  expenses,  that  he  so  strenuously 
opposed  any  which  he  deemed  unnecessary. 

Having  once  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
acquired  a  habit  of  complaining,  and  that  he  could  find 
money  if  he  chose  to  do  so,  she  only  felt  injured  when  he 
enforced  economy,  and  mentally  accused  him  of  making 
needless  difticulties. 

Two  more  years  elapsed,  and  their  family  consisted  of 


228  BLANCHE. 

four  promising  children,  whenDe  Molton's  regiment  was 
ordered  to  Brighton:  they  were  again  thrown  among 
people  of  their  own  class,  and  friends  of  former  days. 

They  had  been  married  nearly  five  yea.  >,  and  during 
those  years  words  had  been  spoken  which  could  not  be 
forgotten.  Poverty  had  come  in  at  the  door;  and  if 
Love  had  not  quite  flown  out  at  the  window,  he  fluttered 
on  the  window-sill. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in     { 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin, 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day, 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said  ; 
Till,  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone. 

Lalla  Rookh. 

Among  other  old  acquaintances,  the  Westhopes  were 
established  at  Brighton ;  and  it  was  with  ijiixed  feelings 
that  Blanche  prepared  herself  to  meet  the  friend  of  her 
youth,  the  person  who  had  most  unintentionally  assisted 
to  foster  her  love,  by  always  appearing  so  impressed  with 
De  Molton's  attractions.  Upon  that  subject  both  men 
and  women  are  more  influenced  by  the  estimation  in 
which  the  object  is  held  by  others,  than  they  would 
willingly  allow  :  they  are  ashamed  to  be  so  easily  pleased 
as  to  prefer  a  person  whom  no  one  else  thinks  pleasing, 
and  they  are  decidedly  proud  of  being  preferred  by  one 
whom  every  one  else  admires. 

Mingled  with  her  desire  to  see  her  early  friend, 
Blanche  experienced  a  certain  dread  of  the  scrutinizing 
eye  of  intimacy.  She  felt  she  should  never  be  able  to 
echo,  with  the  accent  of  truth,  the  romantic  sentiments 


BLANCHE.  229 

in  which  they  used  once  to  indulge  ;  and  she  did  not 
wish  her  friend  to  discover  that  the  love  which  she  had 
spoken  of  as  equal  to  endure  any  trials,  had  nearly  sunk 
under  the  petty  and  undignified  vexations  of  pecuniary 
difficulty. 

Time,  however,  had  worked  some  changes  in  l.ady 
AVesthope.  She  had  long  conquered  her  incipient  incli- 
nation towards  Mr.  Wroxholnie  ;  she  had  learned  that  a 
well-regulated  mind  can  make  itself  contented,  if  not 
happy,  under  almost  all  circumstances;  she  had  quite 
given  up  the  point  of  being  the  youngest  and  most 
admired  person  in  her  circle  ;  and  she  had  convinced 
herself  that  she  ought  to  be  grateful  for  the  worldly  com- 
forts with  which  she  was  surrounded,  for  the  ample 
means  of  doing  good  wliich  were  within  her  reach,  and 
for  the  circumstance  of  having  a  very  good-humoured 
husband ;  who,  whatever  might  be  his  faults,  was  no 
tyrant. 

Lord  Westhope  also  was  somewhat  altered.  He  was 
now  eight  years  older  than  when  we  began  our  story,  and 
twenty-two  years  older  than  when  he  began  his  infidel- 
ities. It  was  indeed  time  he  should  have  sown  his  wild 
oats,  and  accordingly  he  was  become  infinitely  more 
domestic.  Although  love  was  a  feeling  whicli  could 
never  again  exist  between  them,  there  subsisted  a  con- 
siderable regard,  and  their  society  was  far  froni  disagree- 
able to  each  other. 

On  the  morning  after  the  arrival  of  the  De  Moltons, 
when  Lady  Westhope  called  upon  Blanche,  one  of  the 
disputes  which  were  now  of  too  irequent  occurrence 
had  just  taken  place  between  her  and  her  husband. 
Blanche  had  made  a  despcwate  effort  to  persuade  De 
Molton  to  take  a  house  which  was  to  be  let,  at  a  rent  low 
in  proportion  to  its  size,  but  still  higher  than  he  thought 
he  could  afford.  Blanche  shrank  li'om  being  seen  by 
her  former  associates  in  the  mean  and  paltry  lodging, 
which,  in  so  expensive  a  place  as  Brighton,  was  the  only 
one  he  found  within  his  means,  lie  persisted  in  his 
usual  resolution,  never  to  do  any  thing  which  might  event- 
ually lead  to  a  shabby  action,  lor  the  sake  of  avoiding  a 

VOL.    11. U 


230  BLANCHE. 

shabby  appearance.  He  had  not  long  left  the  room,  after 
a  peremptory  refusal  to  accede  to  his  wife's  request, 
when  Lady  Westhope  entered. 

After  the  first  greetings  were  over,  and  Lady  Westhope 
had  admired  Blanche's  beautiful  children,  they  drew  their 
chairs  to  the  fire,  and  Lady  Westhope  exclaimed,  "  How 
I  envy  you  those  lovely  children,  Blanche  !  I  think  if  I 
had  four  such  enclianting  creatures,  I  should  be  quite 
happy  !  I  should  so  like  to  have  a  large  flourishing  family 
growing  up  around  me  !" 

"  Heavens  1  dear  Lady  Westhope  I  and  I  consider 
each  addition  to  mine  as  a  visitation  which  gives  me  the 
blue  devils  for  months  !  When  once  they  are  there,  and 
they  have  made  themselves  beloved,  one  would  not  part 
with  them  for  worlds;  but  if  you  knew  what  unceasing 
trouble  they  give,  and  how  difficult  it  is  to  do  one's  duty 
by  them,  you  would  not  wish  for  a  large  family." 

"  Well !  perhaps  there  are  advantages  as  well  as  disad- 
vantages in  everything.  1  have  schooled  my  mind,  and 
brought  myself  to  think  every  thing  is  for  the  best.  1  am 
a  much  more  contented  person,  Blanche,  than  when  we 
used  to  talk  over  your  love  affairs  in  former  days.  Now, 
tell  me  a  little  about  Captain  De  Molton.  Is  he  as  hand- 
some as  ever  ?  and  are  you  as  much  in  love  as  ever  ?  I 
certainly  never  did  see  such  a  regular  love-match  as 
yours !  The  longer  you  were  separated,  and  the  more 
you  were  thwarted,  the  more  desperately  constant  you 
both  were  !" 

"  Opposition  has  always  been  supposed  to  have  that 
effect:  I  believe  it  has  often  turned  many  a  passing  fancy 
into  a  grande  passion." 

"  Why,  you  are  not  implying  such  treason  against 
yourself,  as  to  say  that  opposition  assisted  to  foster  your 
grande  passion  ?" 

"  Oh  dear  no  !  I  only  spoke  generally.  But  do  you 
tell  me  a  little  about  Lord  Westhope,"  she  added,  to 
turn  the  conversation  from  her  own  aflairs. 

"  Oh  1  he  has  grown  so  kind  and  attentive  !  I  assure 
you  we  are  settling  down  into  a  most  domestic  comfort- 
able old  couple." 


BLANCHE. 


231 


The  entrance  of  Mr.  Stapleford  interrupted  the  mutual 
investigation  of  conjugal  felicity  which  the  friends  had  set 
on  foot.  Mr.  Stapleford  said  he  had  just  met  De  Molten 
in  the  street,  who  had  told  him  where  he  should  find 
Lady  Blanche,  and  he  had  lost  no  time  in  paying  his  re- 
spects to  her.  "  But,  dear  Lady  Blanche,  you  are  going  to 
remove  from  this  horrid  place  1  In  such  a  situation,  too  ! 
A  mile  and  a  half  from  the  sea  I  I  could  scarcely  believe 
De  Molton  when  he  pointed  out  this  as  your  abode ;  and 
should  have  imagined  he  was  playing  off  a  practical  joke 
upon  me,  if  I  had  not  known  he  was  not  given  to  being 
facetious.  But  I  suppose  you  are  only  here  till  you  can 
procure  something  in  the  land  of  the  living." 

Blanche  did  not  wish  Mr.  Stapleford  to  perceive  she 
was  not  perfectly  contented  with  her  fate,  and  she  replied 
that  she  did  not  like  being  within  hearing  of  the  sea, — 
the  constant  monotonous  breaking  of  the  waves  upon  the 
shore  made  her  melancholy. 

"  There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  he  replied,  with 
a  polite  bow,  and  a  glance  which  quickly  ran  over  the 
shabby  furniture,  the  once  smart  trellised  paper  (a  sort  of 
paper  peculiarly  in  vogue  at  sea-bathing  places,  where 
real  flowers  and  real  green  leaves  are  rare),  the  little 
round  convex  mirror  surmounted  by  an  eagle  with  a 
chain  in  its  bill,  and  the  other  lodging-house  elegances 
which  adorned  the  room  ;  especially  the  bell-ropes,  which 
were  as  fine,  and  much  more  dirty,  than  those  at  Mrs. 
Jones's,  which,  four  years  before,  had  excited  such  strong 
feelings  of  horror  in  Blanche's  mind.  She  saw  the  ex- 
cursive glance  of  his  eye,  and  she  saw  the  affectation  of 
politeness  with  which  he  then  let  it  fall  to  the  ground, 
while  a  slight  smile  just  played  about  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  She  always  disliked  him  ;  and  she  now  most 
devoutly  wished  he  had  not  fancied  the  sea  air  bracing, 
and  the  society  at  Brighton  agreeable. 

"  You  will  be  at  Mrs.  L.'s  this  evening,  shall  you  not  V* 
inquired  Stapleford. 

"  No,"  replied  Lady  Blanche  ;  **  I  am  not  acquainted 
"Vvith  her," 


232 


BLANCHE. 


"  Ah  !  by-the-by,  she  has  come  into  fashion  since  your 
time.     "How  long  is  it  since  we  lost  sight  of  you?" 

"  I  have  been  married  five  years." 

"  Married  !  Ah  !  marriage  is  a  holy  rite,  synonymous 
with  honourable  sepulture.  You  have,  from  that  day, 
been  dead  to  all  your  friends !  By-the-by,  1  was  with 
the  Wentnors  a  month  ago.  You  know  your  old  friend 
Glenrith  is  become  Lord  Wentnor  now.  He,  however, 
seems  determined  not  to  be  buried  alive.  He  is  giving 
balls  and  fetes  of  all  descriptions  ;  or  rather  she  is ;  for 
he  is  such  a  doting  husband  that  every  fancy  of  hers  is  a 
law  to  him.  It  is  quite  pretty  to  see  such  love-making 
after  eight  years  of  marriage,  especially  as  the  result  of 
this  Arcadian  conjugality  generally  is  a  splendid  enter- 
tainment by  which  half  England  profits." 

Stapleford's  instinct  for  saying  the  disagreeable  thing 
had  not  deserted  him  ;  and  he  left  Blanche  to  ponder  on 
the  fate  she  had  rejected,  and  to  compare  it  with  that  she 
had  persisted  in  choosing.  Lady  Westhope,  too,  was 
happy  I  She  rejoiced  that  such  should  be  the  case  ;  but 
certainly  the  reflections  she  made  during  the  rest  of  that 
day  were  not  unworldly  ones. 

De  Molton  had  again  met  Stapleford  in  his  morning 
walk,  who,  after  complimenting  him  upon  the  unimpaired 
beauty  of  liis  wife,  attacked  him  most  unmercifully  for 
having  kept  her  so  long  in  seclusion,  and  for  now  bury- 
ing in  her  such  an  out-of  the-way  place,  and  implied  (what 
he  had  no  right  to  know,  but  what  he  had  guessed  from 
the  expressive  countenance  of  Blanche,  in  which  her  feel- 
ings might  always  be  read  as  in  a  mirror),  that  she  was 
an  unwilling  denizen  in  that  remote  suburb. 

De  Molton  returned  home  somewhat  displeased  at 
having  been,  as  he  imagined,  spoken  of  as  a  tyrant  and  a 
misei*.  The  tete-a-tete  in  the  evening  did  not  promise 
to  be  agreeable. 

"  Mr.  Stapleford  called  this  morning,"  Blanche  began. 

"  So  he  told  me,"  replied  De  Molton. 

"  And  Lady  Westhope  has  been  here." 

"  Did  they  tell  you  any  news  ?" 

"  Mr.  Stapleford  told  me  he  had  been  staying  at  Went- 


BLANCHE. 


233 


I 


nor  Castle,  and  he  gives  such  a  description  of  their  hap- 
piness !  They  seem  to  be  giving  splendid  fetes  and 
beautiful  entertainments,  all  to  please  her ;  for  he  says 
that  every  wish  of  l.ady  Wentnor's  is  a  law  to  her  hus- 
band." 

De  Molton  felt  this  last  sentence  as  an  implied  cut  at 
him,  "  It  is  very  fortunate  for  Glenrith  that  he  has  money 
to  throw  away  in  gratifying  every  foolish  whim  of  a  fan- 
tastical woman." 

Blanche  felt  that  this  was  a  hit  at  her ;  and,  forgetting 
that  by  applying  to  herself  what  her  husband  said,  she 
gave  him  a  right  to  conclude  she  meant  to  be  personal 
in  her  account  of  Lord  Wentnor  as  a  husband,  she  fol- 
lowed her  impulse,  and  replied — 

"  I  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  thing  fantastical  in 
wishing  not  to  be  laughed  at  by  all  one's  acquaintance, 
and  in  disliking  a  house  one's  friends  can  hardly  bring 
themselves  to  enter." 

"  Blanche,  when  you  married  me,  you  knew  you  mar- 
ried a  poor  man :  if  you  wished  for  riches  and  splendour, 
why  did  you  not  marry  Glenrith  ?'' 

"  I  am  sure,  if  I  wished  for  kindness  and  for  good- 
humour,  I  had  better  have  married  Lord  Glenrith.  I 
do  not  know  what  foolish,  girlish  infatuation  came  over 
me." 

"  It  is  indeed  unfortunate  that  in  consequence  of  this 
foolish,  girlish  infatuation,  which  arc  the  terms  by  which 
you  designate  your  attachment  to  your  husband,  you 
should  have  thrown  away  a  situation  in  which  you  would 
have  been  so  much  happier.  I  have  but  to  regret  that  I 
should  have  marred  your  fortunes — so  unwittingly  marred 
them  ;  for  neither  Glenrith  nor  yourself  can  accuse  me 
of  having,  by  any  arts  or  underhand  practices,  attempted 
to  win  your  affections  from  him." 

This  implied,  according  to  Blanche's  interpretation  of 
his  words,  that  she  had  allowed  them  to  be  gained  before 
he  had  made  any  attempt  to  do  so ;  and,  as  angry  people 
usually  do,  answering  to  the  sense  she  chose  to  attribute 
to  his  speech,  rather  than  to  its  plain  and  obvious  mean- 
ing, she  replied — 

tt2 


234  BLANCHE. 

"  If  it  was  only  pity  for  the  unfortunate  passion  which 
you  supposed  me  to  entertain  for  you  which  induced  you 
to  profess  love  at  Cransley,  it  is  indeed  unfortunate  that 
you  allowed  your  pity  so  far  to  overcome  your  prudence. 
If  I  had  imagined  such  to  have  been  the  case,  I  should 
most  assuredly  never  have  broken  oft"  my  engagement 
with  Lord  Wentnor." 

"  I  can  only  again  lament  that  I  should  have  been  the 
cause  of  your  doing  what  you  so  much  regret." 

"  If  this  is  my  reward  for  having  rejected,  for  your 
sake,  the  best  pai^ti  in  England,  a  good  man,  too,  and  one 
who  loved  me — for  having  disappointed  and  angered  my 
parents — for  having  preserved  an  undeviating  constancy 
for  three  years  to  a  person  who  now  laments  that  I  did 
not  marry  his  rival,  and  confesses  he  only  married  me 
out  of  pity,  I  am  indeed  the  most  unfortunate  woman  in 
the  world  !"  She  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  of  anger  and 
vexation. 

"Blanche,  you  wilfully  pervert  the  meaning  of  all  I 
say.  When  did  I  imply  that  I  married  you  for  any 
thing  but  love  ?  But  these  reproaches,  this  petulance, 
are  not  the  right  methods  to  preserve  a  husband's 
affection." 

"  If  nothing  but  a  slave — a  patient,  meek  Griselda — a 
Mrs.  Jones — can  preserve  your  affection,  I  am  afraid  I 
have  no  chance  of  preserving  it !  .1  do  not  know  what  I 
can  do  more  than  I  already  do.  I  work  for  my  children ; 
I  go  without  all  the  comforts  I  have  been  used  to ;  I 
have  no  maid ;  and  I  must  refuse  going  to  Lady  West- 
hope's  to-morrow  night,  because  the  nursery-maid  can- 
not dress  my  hair,  and  because  I  have  no  gown  fit  to 
appear  in." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry  I  have  not  the  means  of  pro- 
viding you  with  the  luxuries  you  regret,  and  I  am  very 
sorry  you  refuse  yourself  the  pleasures  and  amusements 
that  so  naturally  fall  in  your  way.  I  had  hoped  that  at 
Brighton,  where  people  may  join  in  society  without  much 
expense,  and  where  it  is  not  necessary  to  keep  a  carriage, 
you  might  mix  with  your  friends.  I  should  have  thought 
the  art  of  hair-dressing  was  not  so  very  difficult  to  ac- 


BLANCHE. 


235 


quire,  when  one  sees  every  attorney's  daughter,  every 
milliner's  apprentice,  every  shop-girl,  with  hair  which  puts 
to  shame  all  the  exertions  of  M.  Hippolite." 

"  I  am  not  a  shop-girl,  or  a  milliner's  apprentice,"  an- 
swered Lady  Blanche,  while  all  the  blood  of  the  Falk- 
ingharas  mounted  to  her  cheek,  and  all  the  spirit  of  an 
ancient  race  flashed  from  her  eye. 

"  But  you  are  the  wife  of  a  poor  man,  although  of 
one  as  nobly  born  as  yourself!"  and  all  the  pride  of  the 
De  Moltons  rendered  the  brow  of  her  husband  absolutely 
awful. 

"  I  know  full  well  that  I  am  the  wife  of  a  poor  man ; 
there  is  no  need  to  remind  me  so  often  of  that  truth," 
replied  Lady  Blanche,  with  some  bitterness  in  her  tone  ; 
"  and  therefore  1  shall  stay  at  home,  and  not  expose  my 
poverty  to  the  eyes  of  the  pitying  world,  or  to  the  sneers 
of  a  Mr.  Stapleford." 

"  You  will  do  as  is  most  agreeable  to  yourself.  I  shall 
certainly  go  to  Lady  Westhope's,  as  I  shall  feel  sincere 
pleasure  in  seeing  my  old  friends  again." 

To  Lady  Westhope's  went  De  Molton,  and  Blanche 
stayed  at  home.  She  had  originally  intended,  for  the 
sake  of  enjoying  agreeable  society,  to  brave  the  slight 
mortification  of  not  finding  herself,  as  was  once  the  case, 
the  best  dressed  woman  in  the  room  ;  but  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  preceding  evening  had  left,  her  so  unhappy,  so 
discontented,  and  so  indignant,  that  she  found  a  certain 
pleasure  in  martyrdom.  It  was,  however,  only  in  the 
eyes  of  her  husband  that  she  wished  to  enact  the  martyr ; 
from  the  world  she  would  fain  conceal  that  she  had  so 
misjudged  the  strength  of  her  own  attachment ;  she  meant 
to  persuade  others  that  it  was  from  choice,  from  bad 
health,  or  from  any  motive  rather  than  the  true  one,  that 
she  persisted  in  leading  a  retired  life. 

But  with  her  candid  disposition,  and  her  speaking  eyes, 
it  did  not  require  the  malicious  tact  of  a  Staplcfonl  to 
read  the  true  state  of  her  feelings.  With  Lady  West- 
hope,  especially,  she  could  not  always  be  on  her  guard; 
and  to  her  it  was  soon  only  too  evident  that  the  love  for 
which  she  had  given  up  every  thing  else  did  not  repay 


236  BLANCHE. 

her  for  the  sacrifices  she  had  made.  Lady  Westliope 
began  indeed  to  doubt  whether  this  much-vaunted  love 
had  not,  when  tried  in  the  balance  against  privations  of 
every  sort,  been  found  utterly  wanting. 

It  may  be  asked,  should  then  Blanche  have  married 
Lord  Glenrith  ?  No,  certainly  ;  for  she  was  not  in  love 
with  him.  More  especially  no,  for  she  was  at  the  time 
in  love  with  another.  But  we  would  urge,  that  if  afflu- 
ence without  love  is  insufficient  to  wedded  happiness, 
so  is  the  most  romantic  love  without  those  habitual  luxu- 
ries, and  that  dispensation  from  sordid  details,  which,  to 
persons  in  a  certain  situation,  may  almost  be  termed  the 
necessaries  of  life. 

Let  not  those  who,  valuing  the  good  things  of  this 
world,  are  dazzled  into  forming  an  interested  marriage, 
anticipate  the  delights  of  sentimental  affection,  nor  be 
disappointed  if  one  whose  situation  was  the  attraction 
prove  destitute  of  those  qualities  which  were  not  sought; 
and  let  those  who  are  '•  all  for  love  and  the  world  well 
lost,"  keep  in  mind  the  latter  half  of  the  sentence,  and 
not  expect  to  find  both  that  which  they  prize,  and  that 
which  they  profess  to  contemn.  Above  all,  let  not  those 
who  have  an  opportunity  of  uniting  in  their  choice  true 
affection  with  the  enjoyments  of  those  comforts  to  which 
they  have  been  accustomed,  be  induced,  by  any  tempta- 
tion of  rank,  wealth,  or  power,  to  give  up  virtuous  hap- 
piness for  heartless  splendour. 


BLANCHE. 


237 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown  ; 
No  traveller  ever  reached  that  birss'd  abode, 
Who  found  not  thorns  and  briers  in  his  road. 

COWPER. 

In  her  intercourse  with  the  De  Moltons,  Lady  West- 
hope  observed  that  they  seldom  addressed  each  other; 
and  that,  in  speaking  of  her  husband,  Blanche  invaria- 
bly called  him  Captain  De  Molton,  instead  of  Frank, 
as  she  had  formerly  done  ;  and  that  De  Molton  also, 
when  speaking  of  his  wife,  added  the  title  to  her  name, 
and  even  occasionally  addressed  her  as  "  Lady" 
Blanche. 

These  were  trifles,  but  yet  they  indicated  much. 
Though  grieved  for  her  cousin's  sake,  Lady  Westhope's 
i-eflections  served  to  reconcile  her  to  her  own  fate,  and 
to  confirm  her  in  her  opinion  that 

Every  black  must  have  its  white, 
And  every  sweet  its  sour, 

and  that  true  wisdom  consists  in  dwelling  on  the 
"  sweets"  of  one's  own  peculiar  lot,  and  striving  to 
forget  the  "  sours  ;"  and  though  for  herself  she  would 
still  have  chosen  Blanche's  trials  rather  than  her  own, 
it  might  be  that  she  knew  her  own,  and  was  not  so  well 
versed  in  Lady  Blanche's.  Yet  her  character  was 
better  fitted  for  Blanche's  situation  :  she  had  more  de- 
cision, more  strength  of  mind,  more  pride, — not  worldly 
pride,  but  pride  of  soul  to  persevere  in  the  path  which 
she  had  once  chalked  out  for  herself. 

De  Molton  had  keenly  and  painfully  felt  the  coolness 
which  had  for  months,  nay,  almost  years,  been  gradu- 


238  BLANCHE. 

ally  increasing  between  them  ;  and  he  was  still  more 
deeply  wounded  when  she  nearly  confessed,  or  at  least 
did  not  deny,  her  regret  at  having  rejected  Lord  Glen- 
rith  for  him.  He  could  have  found  excuses  for  any 
thing  else.  The  pride  of  man,  the  tenderness  of  the 
husband,  the  sensitiveness  of  the  individual,  were  all 
touched  in  the  tenderest  point. 

"  Could  this,"  he  thought,  "  be  the  same  creature  who 
was  such  a  contemner  of  worldly  wealth,  so  ardent  a 
votary  of  love  in  a  cottage,  such  an  enthusiast  for  the 
pleasures  of  nature  ?"  Alas,  for  poor  Blanche  !  it  was 
love  in  a  lodging-house,  not  love  in  a  cottage,  that  she 
had  tried ;  and  as  to  the  pleasures  of  nature,  the  dusty 
suburbs  of  a  country  town  are  scarcely  "the  country" 
to  a  person  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive 
park,  in  a  wild  and  woody  country. 

De  Molton  recollected  how,  out  of  consideration  for 
her,  he  had  concealed  his  own  feelings  at  Paris  ;  how 
scrupulously  he  had  avoided  interfering  with  ihe  more 
brilliant  prospects  which  were  opening  before  her ; 
how,  far  from  taking  advantage  of  her  unguarded  con- 
fession of  preference,  he  had  banished  himself  from  his 
native  land ;  how,  though  hopeless,  he  had  remained 
constant  to  her  image  for  three  long  years  ;  how,  when 
he  found  her  free,  he  had  hastened  to  throw  himself  at 
her  feet ;  how,  without  murmuring  or  repining,  he 
gladly  endured  privations,  the  same  that  she  did,  and 
thought  himself  only  too  well  rewarded  if  she  would 
cheer  their  humble  home  with  a  smile.  He  thought 
over  all  these  things,  and  he  felt  himself  the  most  in- 
jured of  men.  Did  he  not  deny  himself  every  indul-. 
gence  ?  Did  he  not  even  refuse  himself  the  satisfaction 
of  asking  a  friend  to  share  his  morsel  ? — the  most  gall^ 
ing  self-denial  enjoined  by  absolute  poverty  !  Did  not 
the  responsibility  of  providing  for  their  children  weigh 
upon  his  mind  ?  Was  it  not  his  duty  to  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  education  must  commence, — when 
boys  must  be  sent  to  school,  when  girls  must  have  mas- 
ters ?  What  parent  will  sit  down  contented  under  the 
notion  that  his  children  will  not  be  fitted  by  manners 


BLANCHE. 


239 


and  education  to  move  in  the  sphere  in  which  they  were 
born  ?  None,  who  are  not  without  that  commonest 
and  strongest  feeUng  in  all  created  beings,  parental 
affection — or  who  are  not  without  the  power  of  reflec- 
tion !  And  how  were  these  expenses  to  be  met  ?  How, 
but  by  increased  economy  on  their  part? 

Such  were  the  cares  which  pressed  on  De  Molton's 
mind.  How  much  better  would  it  have  been  had  he 
fairly  communicated  them  all  to  his  wife ;  had  he 
frankly  counselled  with  her  upon  the  best  plan  to  be 
pursued ;  had  he  openly  laid  before  her  his  actual  in- 
come, his  actual  expenses !  But  the  constitutional 
reserve  to  which  we  have  alluded  prevented  his  pursu- 
ing this  course. 

It  was  most  painful  to  him  to  refuse  any  of  her 
wishes,  and  the  very  pain  it  gave  him  imparted  to  his 
manner  of  doing  so  a  certain  harshness,  which  pre- 
vented Blanche  from  entering  into  his  views.  Her 
resistance  to  his  views,  or  her  martyr-like  acquiescence 
in  them,  rendered  him  still  less  communicative  ;  when, 
perhaps,  had  he  pursued  a  more  open  line  of  conduct, 
a  person  who  married  with  such  good  intentions  as  she 
did  (though  with  little  knowledge  of  things  as  they 
are)  might  have  been  led  to  suggest  the  very  sacrifices 
at  which  she  repined  when  they  were  demanded  as  a 
right. 

Every  succeeding  day  seemed  to  widen  the  breach 
between  them.  This  result  of  a  love-match  afforded 
the  materials  for  many  a  bad  jest  among  some  who 
called  themselves  their  friends,  while  others  saw  nothing 
entertaining  in  the  wreck  of  happiness  to  two  people 
possessing  many  amiable  qualities,  though  neither  of 
them  might  be  faultless.  Some  pitied  Lady  Blanche 
for  having  such  a  harsh  and  ungrateful  tyrant  for  a 
-husband  ;  and  some  felt  for  the  noble,  uncompromising 
De  Molton,  whose  home  was  evidently  rendered  miser- 
able  by  a  wilful  discontented  wife.  Some  predicted  a 
separation  :  some  predicted  that,  beautiful  as  was  Lady 
Blanche,  and  tired  as  she  was  of  her  home,  the  time 
would  arrive  when  she  would  be  induced  to  leave  it, 


240  BLANCHE. 

for  one  more  brilliant,  though  less  respectable  ; — al- 
though her  manners  were  now  so  reserved,  so  decorous, 
a  few  years,  and  people  would  see  the  difference  ;  a 
woman  who  had  once  loved  so  passionately,  would  not 
remain  con,tented  to  pass  her  life  from  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight  in  a  state  of  cold  indifference,  if  not  of  absolute 
dislike. 

But  those  who  thus  prognosticated,  proved  unin- 
spired prophets.  Affection  was  still  deep-rooted  in 
both  their  hearts.  The  noxious  weeds  of  petty  griev- 
ances had  choked,  but  not  destroyed,  the  goodly  plant. 
It  still  retained  sufficient  life,  when  moistened  by  the 
waters  of  affliction,  to  spring  up  with  renewed  vigour, 
and  overcome  in  its  growth  the  weeds  which  had  almost 
stifled  it. 


CHArTER  XIX. 

And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smile 
For  having  lost  its  light  a  while. 

Lalla  Roohh. 

The  illness  of  their  children  first  awakened  Blanche 
and  De  Molton  to  a  knowledge  of  their  real  feelings  to- 
wards each  other. 

The  children  caught  the  measles,  a  complaint  which 
had  at  that  period  proved  peculiarly  fatal.  The  eldest 
girl,  who  was  at  that  most  engaging  of  all  ages  when, 
without  losing  the  graces  of  infancy,  the  mind  opens 
into  companionship,  became  alarmingly  ill.  In  their 
tender  assiduity  by  the  little  bed  of  the  sufferer,  all 
feelings  of  asperity,  all  feelings  of  coldness,  were  quickly 
forgotten. 

Together  they  watched  with  intense  anxiety,  to- 
gether they  listened  to  the  short  and  frequent  cough  ; 


BLANCHE.  241 

one  held  the  cup  of  cooling  beverage  with  which  the 
other  moistened  the  lips  of  their  child.  No  !  it  is  not 
possible  that  parents  can  bend  over  the  sick-bed  of  their 
first-born, — tlie  creature  equally  dear  to  both, — the 
creature  whose  first  accents  of  tenderness  have  been 
framed  to  utter  their  names, — the  creature  whose  first 
emotions  of  love  have  been  for  them,  whose  first  notions 
of  right  and  wrong  they  have  together  laboured  to  form; 
— no  !  they  cannot  bend  over  the  sick-bed  of  this  loved 
creature,  and  harbour  any  recollection  of  former  un- 
kindness.  The  impression  may  fade  away ;  new 
causes  of  irritation  may  subsequently  arise  ;  but,  for 
the  time  being,  surely  it  is  impossible  that  any  but  feel- 
ings of  affection  can  find  a  place  in  their  hearts. 

With  Blanche  and  De  Molton  all  that  had  ever  passed 
was  utterly  wiped  away,  as,  with  the  sickening  dread 
of  hearing  their  worst  fears  confirmed,  they  followed 
the  physician  from  the  sick-chamber.  They  scarcely 
knew  in  what  terms  to  couch  the  dreadful  question  to 
which  they  feared  to  receive  a  still  more  dreadful  an- 
swer,— that  question  which  is  asked  in  a  broken  and 
quivering  voice,  but  sometimes  with  a  faint  smile,  as- 
sumed to  reassure  the  questioner, — that  question  which 
is  oftener  put  in  the  form  of  an  assertion,  "  You  do  not 
think  there  is  any  danger." 

"  Why,  certainly  our  little  patient  is  in  a  very  un- 
comfortable state,"  replied  the  physician,  who  consid- 
ered it  his  duty  to  prepare  the  parents  for  the  event 
which  he  thought  only  too  probable. 

The  false  hollow  smile  faded  from  the  countenance  of 
the  agonized  father  :  he  knit  his  brows,  and  bit  his  com- 
pressed lip,  till  the  blood  almost  started;  but  Blanche, 
worn  out  with  fatigue  and  agitation,  his  poor  Blanche, 
unable  to  meet  this  death-blow  to  her  hopes,  staggered 
towards  him  for  support,  and  the  husband  mastered  the 
feelings  of  the  father,  to  sustain  her  fainting  form,  to 
sooth  her  more  overwhelming  agonies. 

There  are  sufferings  on  which  it  is  painful  to  dwell 
— sufferings  too  real,  too  true,  too  common, — suffer- 
ings which  have  been  often  endured,  and  which,  alas  ! 

VOL.  u. — X 


242  BLANCHE, 

many  have  in  store  for  them, — -sufferings  which  equal 
in  intensity  any  of  which  humannature  is  capahle. 

For  two  days  and  two  nights  did  they  watch  each 
varying  symptom,  count  with  trembhng  accuracy  the 
minutes,  tlie  seconds,  which  were  passed  in  undis- 
turbed repose,  and  listen  with  painful  rapture  to  the 
sweet  voice,  the  plaintive  and  endearing  "papa,"  "  mam- 
ma," which  the  poor  child  often  uttered,  when,  in  the 
restlessness  of  illness,  she  wanted,  she  knew  not  what. 

How  sad  and  painful  an  effort  was  it  to  veil  under 
a  semblance  of  playfulness  the  anxiety  which  con- 
sumed them,  while  they  attempted  to  amuse  the  infant 
sufferer !  to  tell  her  childish  tales,  in  a  gay  tone  of  voice, 
while  the  iieart  was  bursting  !  to  smooth  the  brow,  to 
affect  a  smile  !  How  often,  during  these  two  long  days, 
these  two  interminable  nights,  did  Blanche  reflect  upon 
her  folly  and  her  ingratitude  ! — her  folly  in  not  enjoy- 
ing to  the  uttermost  the  happiness  which  a  few  short 
days  before  was  within  her  reach, — her  ingratitude  to 
Providence  for  the  blessings  till  then  vouchsafed  to  her  ! 

A  horrible  chill  ran  through  her  ! — perhaps  it  was 
this  very  ingratitude  which  had  deserved  so  severe  a 
chastisement.  How  did  she  now  wonder  that  petty 
annoyances  should  have  so  ruffled  her  !  What  to  her 
were  now  the  sneers  of  Stapleford,  the  pity  of  the 
world,  the  absence  of  elegances,  of  comforts  !  Dry 
bread  to  eat,  a  shelter  from  the  weather,  and  her  chil- 
dren once  more  healthy,  now  appeared  to  her  the  sum- 
mit of  earthly  happiness. 

De  Molton,  too,  when  he  beheld  bis  still-loved 
Blanche  bowed  down  with  grief,  when  he  found  her 
once  more  overflowing  with  tenderness  to  himself,  won- 
dered how  he  could  ever  liave  imagined  her  to  be 
estranged  from  him  ;  and  he  watched  over  her  as  ten- 
derly as  over  his  child. 

On  the  third  day  the  physician  perceived  a  slight  im- 
provement. He  allowed  them  to  hope ;  and  the  revul- 
sion of  feeling",  the  unbounded  joy  with  which  this  per- 
mission was  hailed  by  Blanche,  alarmed  him  by  its 
vehemence.    He  attempted  to  qualify  his  opinion,  but 


BLANCHE. 


243 


it  was  in  vain  ! — she  was  allowed  to  hope :  and  stronger 
than  reason,  her  ardent  nature  made  her  jump  to  the 
delightful  conclusion,  that  her  child  was  safe. 

De  Molton,  fearful  of  a  relapse,  tried  to  subdue  her 
raptures  ;  but  no  sooner  had  the  physician  left  the  room, 
than,  throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Our  child  will  live,  Fraukj!  I  know  she  will  !  She 
will  live,  and  w.e  shall  be  happy — entirely,  perfectly 
happy  !     Nothing  can  ever  make  me  unhappy  again  !" 

Short-sighted  mortals  !  We  little  know  what  the 
next  week,  the  next  day,  the  next  hour,  the  next  mo- 
ment, may  have  in  store  for  us  ! 

The  hopes  of  Blanche,  however,  were  not  doomed 
on  this  occasion  to  be  disappointed :  the  little  girl 
rapidly  recovered ;  the  other  children  had  the  com- 
plaint mildly  ;  and  Blanche,  indeed,  thought  herself 
beyond  the  reach  of  misfortune.  She  felt  gratitude, 
fervent  gratitude,  to  Heaven  for  its  mercies  ;  but  afflic- 
tion had  not  yet  taught  her  to  "rejoice  in  trembling." 
She  did  not  remember  how,  always,  at  all  times,  and  in 
all  places,  our  happiness  is  in  the  hands  of  an  all-wise, 
all-powerful,  but  merciful  Being,  whose  chastisements 
are  dealt  in  pity. 

This  truth  was  forced  upon  her  mind  when,  just  as 
the  children  were  convalescent,  she  saw  her  husband 
become  listless  and  oppressed :  she  heard  him  fre- 
quently cough,  and  she  felt  some  alarm  on  his  account. 

It  had  always  been  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  a  slight 
rash  he  had  in  his  boyhood  was  or  was  not  the  measles. 
He  had  never  remembered  this  doubt  while  attending 
his  child,  and  it  was  not  till  he  felt  unaccountably  lan- 
guid and  suffering  that  he  recollected  he  might  possi- 
bly have  caught  the  infection. 

The  suspicion  which  he  then  hinted  to  Blanche  shot 
through  her  frame  with  the  conviction  of  impend- 
ing wo  ;  and  when  the  physician  confirmed  the  fact, 
the  agonizing,  but  not  uncommon  dread  which  often 
overtakes  those  in  affliction  recurred  to  her  mind  with 
increased  intensity.  Were  their  sorrows  the  visitation 
of  an  offended  Providence,  called  down  upon  their  de- 


244  BLANCHE. 

voted  heads  by  their  own  want  of  submission  to  its  de- 
crees ? — was  she  unworthy  of  a  happiness  she  had 
failed  to  vahie  ? — was  the  moment  come  when  her  re- 
pinings  and  her  discontent  were  to  be  requited  with 
a  terrible  retribution  ? 

Nothing  that  Doctor  A.  could  utter  was  capable  of 
reassuring  her.  She  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and 
redoubled  her  attentions  to  her  husband.  When  told 
that  "  she  ought  to  place  more  reliance  in  that  Power 
which  had  raised  her  cliiid  from  a  much  more  desper- 
ate state  of  sickness,"  she  answered  mournfully,  "  I  do 
not  deserve  it." 

"We  none  of  us  deserve  the  mercies  we  meet  with," 
replied  the  kind-hearted  physician  :  "  if  we  were  dealt 
with  according  to  our  merits,  well  might  we  all  des- 
pair." For  a  few  moments  such  arguments  would 
cheer  her,  but  again  she  would  relapse  into  despond- 
ency ;  and  when,  after  some  days,  Dr.  A.  confessed 
that  his  pulse  was  very  high — when  his  tone  of  encour- 
agement changed  to  one  of  consolation  and  condolence, 
her  spirit  completely  sunk — hope  died  away  within  her 
bosom. 

In  what  fearful  array  did  her  own  faults  towards 
him  rise  up  against  her  !  How  completely  did  she  for- 
get the  little  tone  of  harshness  which  had  once  appeared 
to  her  to  excuse  and  to  justify  her  in  disputing  his 
wishes  and  opposing  his  plans  !  She  felt  she  could 
never  do  enough  to  expiate  her  faults,  that  a  whole  life 
of  devotion  could  scarcely  suffice  to  atone  for  them  ; 
and,  extreme  in  every  thing,  she  now  looked  upon  her- 
self as  having  been  the  most  sinful  of  creatures. 

De  Molton,  whose  affection  had  only  been  suspended, 
not  destroyed,  by  the  coldness  he  had  met  with,  now, 
when  he  found  her  tender,  gentle,  and  indefatigable,  felt 
for  her  all,  and  more  than  he  had  ever  fek  before.  One 
day  she  had  been  tending  him  with  even  more  than  her 
usual  solicitude,  when  he  said,  "  Thank  you,  Blanche  ; 
you  are  a  kind  and  excellent  nurse  ;  and  it  grieves  me 
when  I  think  to  what  a  dreary  home  of  sickness,  penury, 
and  drudgery,  I  have  been  the  means  of  bringing  you. 


BLANCHE.  245 

Without  me,  you  would  have  been  now  enjoying  the 
splendour,  the  brilliancy  of  your  father's  house,  even  sup- 
posing you  had  never  deigned  to  adorn  any  of  the  other 
happy  homes  which  courted  your  acceptance.  I  know 
that  you  have  suffered  much  from  the  privations  una- 
voidable in  our  situation  ;  you  have  at  times  thought  me 
harsh  ;  but  indeed,  my  dearest  Blanche — my  dear,  dear 
wife,  you  do  not  know  how  much  it  has  cost  me  to  re- 
fuse you  any  thing  on  earth." 

"  Oh,  Frank  !  do  not  speak  in  that  manner  !  I  now 
know  how  unreasonable,  how  ungrateful,  I  have  been. 
Do  not  talk  of  what  is  past.  Believe  me,  you  should  not 
agitate  yourself." 

"  It  will  do  me  good  to  say  what  is  upon  my  mind  : 
it  is  possible  I  may  not  recover." 

"  Oh,  Frank  !"  She  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  as  if 
he  was  unkind  in  saying  v.liat  it  was  so  painful  to  hear. 

"  Nay,  do  not  cast  at  me  so  frightened  and  so  accusing 
a  glance.  I  am  not  so  very  ill  yet ;  and  anticipating 
what  is  possible  will  not  make  it  more  probable.  Dr. 
A.  says  there  are  still  hopes." 

"  Oh,  Frank  1  I  cannot  bear  it ;  indeed  I  cannot !" 

"  Dearest  love,  if  it  should  please  God  to  take  me  from 
you,  you  must  bear  it ;  and,  what  is  more,  you  must  ex- 
ert yourself.  You  will  be  left  with  four  young  children, 
and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  with  less  than  ever  to  support 
them  and  yourself.  I  have  ensured  my  life  ;  but  that 
could  be  but  to  a  small  amount,  though  to  the  utmost  I 
could  succeed  in  saving.  It  was  this,  as  I  thought,  indis- 
pensable duty  which  contributed  to  render  us  so  very 
poor." 

"  Oh !  you  were  doing  every  thing  that  was  right ; 
and,  indeed,  if  I  had  known  all,  I  think — I  believe — I 
should  have  behaved  better.  I  think,  if  you  had  told 
me—" 

"  I  ought  to  have  done  so,  perhaps.  It  was  a  kind  of 
mistaken  pride.  The  whole  thing  was  so  distressing  to 
me  !  I  desired  so  ardently  to  be  able  to  gratify  every 
wish  of  your  heart,  that  my  spirit  rebelled  at  being  able 
to  gratify  none.     Still,  my  sense  of  duty  and  of  strong 

x2 


246  BLANCHE. 

necessity  made  me  resolve  not  to  transgress  one  inch 
the  hne  of  prudence  I  had  marked  out  for  myself.  The 
more  your  notions  seemed  unfitted  for  the  fi\te  we  had  em- 
braced, the  more  I  thought  it  my  bounden  duty  to  resist 
them,  and  to  impress  upon  you  the  plain  naked  truth  of 
our  condition  in  life.  I  was  wrong  ;  I  feel  now  that  I 
•was  wrong.  I  should  have  made  you  the  partner  of  my 
thoughts  and  plans,  as  well  as  of  my  affections." 

"  No,  no  !  it  was  not  you  who  were  to  blame  :  yon 
were  all  that  was  admirable ;  yours  was  strict,  uncom- 
promising rectitude,  firmness  of  mind,  every  thing  that 
was  manly  and  noble  ;  while  1 ! — oh,  that  I  can  have  so 
misjudged  you  ! — oh,  that  I  can  have  so  wasted  these 
past  years,  which  I  now  feel  ought  to  have  been  years 
of  such  unmixed,  such  unalloyed  happiness  !" 

"  Now,  when  perhaps  it  is  too  late  !"  he  added,  in  a 
low  faint  voice ;  then  perceiving  the  expression  of  her 
countenance,  he  added,  "  but  better  late  than  never,  my 
love ;"  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  with  a  smile  half 
playful,  half  sad,  attempting,  as  sick  people  often  do,  to 
familiarize  their  own  and  the  minds  of  their  friends  with 
the  idea  of  a  final  separation.  He  drew  her  hand  towards 
him,  and  placing  the  other  upon  it,  he  continued  with 
earnestness  and  solemnity :  "  We  have  been  both  to 
blame — both  of  us.  When  I  am  gone,  do  not  torment 
yourself  with  useless  regrets,  but  remember  what  I  now 
say — that  I  am  conscious  of  having  been  to  blame  on 
my  part.  If  I  had  treated  you  with  entire  confidence 
and  openness,  I  might  have  won  on  your  generous  nature 
to  submit  cheerfully  to  any  privations.  But  I  am  reserved, 
I  am  proud.  I  am  at  length  aware  of  these  constitu- 
tional faults ;  and  I  trust,  if  I  should  be  raised  from  this 
bed  of  sickness — if  I  should  be  spared  to  you,  dear 
Blanche — that  I  shall  in  future  know  my  duty  better, 
and  that  I  shall  pursue  it  resolutely,  and  never  again 
allow  pride  and  reserve  to  chill  our  intercourse." 

"  Oh,  Frank,  if  we  are  but  spared  to  each  other,  in 
spite  of  all  outward  circumstances,  we  will  be  so  very, 
very  happy !  But  we  will  rejoice  in  trembling.  We 
are  now  too  well  aware  how  precarious  is  our  happi- 


BLANCHE.  247 

ness,  and  we  shall  prize  it  the  more  from  that  very  con" 
sciousness.  We  shall  learn  to  be  grateful  for  the  ster- 
ling blessings  we  possess." 

"  And  we  shall  know,  my  love,  as  I  do  now,  that,  when 
we  meet  death  face  to  face,  those  points  only  on  which 
we  have  done  our  duty  can  afford  reflections  in  which 
there  is  any  comfort, — those  alone  on  which  we  have 
failed  to  perform  it  can  give  unmitigated  pain  !" 

"  Alas,  alas  !  how  much  have  I  to  repent  of !  Instead 
of  making  your  happiness,  have  I  not  caused  you  vexa- 
tion and  disappointment?  Have  I  always  honoured, 
always  obeyed  you  ? — have  I  been  really  a  helpmate  to 
you  ?  Oh,  Frank  !  forgive  me  !  Indeed,  indeed,  I  need 
your  forgiveness ;  and  even  that  can  never  reconcile  me 
to  myself !" 

"  Have  you  already  forgotten  my  injunctions,  my  love? 
Remember  what  I  so  earnestly  wish  to  impress  upon 
your  mind, — that  we  have  been  both  to  blame, — both." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good,  kind,  beloved  husband, — thank 
you  ;  and  may  God  in  his  mercy  preserve  you  to  guide 
my  mind,  and  direct  me  in  the  path  I  should  go  ! — then 
I  shall  never  err  again." 

"  A  weak  and  erring  mortal,  like  youFseH',  ia  a  poor 
guide  to  lean  upon,  dear  Blanche  ;  we  must  look  within 
ourselves  for  the  ardent  and  sincere  wish  to  do  what  is 
right,  but  we  must  seek  from  above  the  strength  to  per- 
form it.  It  is  easy  to  know  our  duty ;  the  difficulty  is 
to  persevere  in  its  performance." 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  persevere,  with  you  to  support 
me!" 

He  looked  upon  her  with  an  expression  of  unutterable 
tenderness  and  pity,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  silence. 

The  more  the  fear  that  they  might  be  for  ever  parted 
grew  upon  her,  the  less  could  she  admit  any  allusion  to 
it,  the  more  did  she  cling  to  the  idea  that  their  union 
was  indissoluble. 


248  BLANCHE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Some  manne  hath  good,  but  chyldren  hath  he  none  ; 
Some  manne  hath  both,  but  he  can  get  none  healthe. 
Some  hath  all  three,  but  up  to  honour's  throne 
Can  he  not  crepe  by  no  manner  of  stelth. 
To  some  she  sendeth  chyldren,  riches,  welthe, 
Honour,  worship,  and  reverence  all  his  lyfe, 
But  yet  she  pyncheth  him  with  a  shrewde  wyfe — 

Be  content 
With  such  reward  as  Fortune  hath  you  sent. 

Sir  Thomas  More. 

De  Molton's  health  remained  for  some  weeks  in  a 
most  precarious  state,  during  which  period  they  had 
time  and  opportunity  for  opening  their  whole  hearts  to 
each  other. 

The  religious  sentiments  which,  although  never  be- 
fore much  called  forth,  were  latent  in  both  their  bosoms, 
were  more  fully  developed  ;  and  in  sorrow,  in  fear,  and 
in  distress,  the  communion  of  feeling'  and  interchange 
of  thought  became  more  complete  than  in  the  earlier 
years  of  their  marriage. 

When  he  recovered — for  he  did  recover — they  found 
themselves  thoroughly,  entirely,  and  reasonably  happy. 
The  first  time  that  he  came  into  the  drawing-room, 
when  she  had  arranged  his  armchair  by  the  fire,  and 
drawn  the  narrow  curtains,  placed  the  table  close  to 
him,  and  settled  little  Emma  on  a  stool  at  his  feet,  she 
looked  round  with  delight,  and  could  not  help  express- 
ing that  she  thought  the  room  an  exceedingly  nice  one, 
and  that  really  a  horse-hair  sofa  was  not  so  very  un- 
comfortable. 

"  Take  care,  Blanche,"  replied  De  Molton,  playfully ; 
"  we  must  be  happy  without  deceiving  ourselves :  we 
must  see  things  as  they  really  are.     Do  not,  because 


BLANCHE.  249 

you  are  glad  to  see  me  here,  fancy  this  Httle  room  a 
splendid  apartment,  or  a  horse-hair  sofa  a  luxurious 
seat,  lest  the  moment  of  disenchantment  should  come. 
No,  no  !  we  will  be  happy  in  spite  of  a  bad  room  and 
wretched  furniture :  but  we  will  indulge  in  no  visions." 

"  How  right  you  always  are  !  All  will  go  well,  now 
you  are  recovering.  Yes,  you  will  at  last  make  me 
reasonable  too  :  and  you  will  teach  me  to  keep  all  my 
feelings,  good  as  well  as  bad,  under  proper  control ! 
And  yet  I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  the  room  does  really 
look  different  in  my  eyes  ;  and  I  almost  think  I  do  not 
slip  off  the  sofa  as  much  as  I  used  to  do  1"  He  smiled 
at  her  again ;  and  she  laughed  gayly  at  herself. 

As  he  gradually  recovered,  some  friends  were  admit- 
ted to  see  him.  Lady  Westhope  rejoiced,  not  only  at 
the  restoration  of  his  health,  but  at  the  restoration  of 
confidence  between  them.  Mr.  Stapleford  pathetically 
lamented  that  De  Molton  should  have  been  taken  ill  in 
this  horrid  nut-shell,  and  asked  when  they  should  move 
to  a  more  habitable  part  of  the  town. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Blanche. 

"You  are  not  in  earnest?  What  can  you  find  to 
admire  in  this  apartment,  dear  Lady  Blanche?" 

"  Its  cheapness,"  replied  Blanche  resolutely  :  "  do  you 
not  know,  Mr.  Stapleford,  that  we  are  very  poor  ?" 

The  courage  to  utter  these  few  words  would  spare 
many  persons  many  moments  of  doubt,  and  hesitation, 
and  awkwardness,  and  many  unavailing  efforts  to  make 
an  effect. 

Mr.  Stapleford  bowed  with  much  respect,  and  a  glance 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  You  have  made  a  bad  bargain  ! 
with  your  beauty,  thus  to  have  thrown  yourself  away  1" 

But  his  glance  met  that  of  Lady  Blanche,  which 
seemed  to  answer,  "  I  am  very  poor,  but  I  do  not  repent 
my  bargain." 

Blanche's  object  was  no  longer  to  make  a  decent  ap- 
pearance in  the  eyes  of  others,  but  to  render  her  hus- 
band's home  happy.  De  Molton  no  longer  felt  humbled 
at  their  poverty,  when  she  no  longer  seemed  affected  by 
it.    He  candidly  detailed  his  expenditure  and  his  plans : 


250 


BLANCHE. 


she  took  great  pains  to  dress  her  own  hair,  and  soon 
acquired  the  proficiency  of  a  Mrs.  Jones,  or  of  a  milU- 
ner's  apprentice  ;  she  gayly  si)rung  into  a  Brighton  fly 
with  a  bounding  step,  and  wiUingly  went  into  any 
agreeable  society  that  presented  itself:  and  she  found 
that,  though  no  longer  the  leader  of  fashion  in  point  of 
dress,  she  was  handsome  and  agreeable  enough  to  be 
ecjually  sought  and  liked. 

In  one  of  her  tete-a-tetes  with  Lady  Westhope,  they 
were  both  exclaiming  at  the  worldliness  of  some  mutual 
acquaintance,  who  courted  a  woman  whom  no  one 
esteemed  or  loved  ;  whom  no  one  thought  either  agree- 
able or  handsome,  solely  on  account  of  her  position  in 
the  world. 

"  At  least  Frank  and  I  have  one  comfort,"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  in  the  corner  of  whose  heart  there  still  lurked 
a  remnant  of  vanity  :  "  if  we  are  sought,  it  must  be  for 
our  intrinsic  merits.  There  can  be  no  interested  motive 
in  any  attention  or  kindness  that  is  shown  to  us  ;  and 
that  is  a  reflection  which  puts  one  in  better  humour 
with  one's  self." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lady  Westhope  ;  "  and  if  we  were 
so  inclined,  we  might  moralize  on  this  subject  as  well 
as  on  more  serious  ones.  '  This  is  a  world  of  com- 
pensations,' as  Lady  Montreville  says  she  has  learned 
from  her  old  nurse.  You  remember  Milly  Roberts, 
who  was  always  toddling  after  her  lovely  children  in 
St.  James's  Square  ?  It  is  quite  refreshing  when  one  is 
in  London  to  converse  with  Milly  Roberts,  and  hear 
good  sense,  good  feeling,  and  philosophy  uttered  so  un- 
consciously. Lady  Montreville  says  she  has  taught  her 
almost  all  she  knows  of  right  and  wrong  ;  and  among 
other  things,  that  we  must  not  look  for  perfect  happi- 
ness in  this  world  ;  that  the  most  fortunate  are  not 
without  their  troubles,  as  she  expresses  it,  nor  the  most 
unfortunate  without  their  own  peculiar  blessings.  I 
have  reasoned  myself  into  a  very  respectable  degree  of 
contentment,  and  I  only  hope  that  the  sight  of  you  and 
your  husband,  as  you  now  are,  may  not  disturb  my 
philosophical,  and  I  hope  I  may  add,  religious  view  of 


BLANCHE.  251 

my  own  fate,  as  much  as  the  sight  of  you  three  months 
ago  tended  to  confirm  and  strengthen  it." 

Blanche  had  time  to  prove  that  her  cheerfulness 
under  privation  was  not  the  eftbrt  of  a  moment,  but  a 
resolution  founded  upon  principle,  and  persevered  in 
from  the  same  motive ;  and  De  Molton  also  had  time 
to  prove  that  the  tenderness  of  his  wife  had  softened 
the  sternness  which  was  the  only  flaw  in  his  character; 
and  to  become  as  gentle  as  he  was  firm  in  the  perform- 
ance of  his  duty  ;  when  an  event  occurred  which  pre- 
vented their  late-acquired  virtues  from  being  any  longer 
put  to  so  severe  a  trial. 

By  the  death  of  a  very  rich  godfather,  De  Molton 
became  possessed  of  a  small  independence.  It  was 
very  small ;  but  it  enabled  him  to  retire  on  half-pay  till 
he  might  be  wanted  for  the  active  service  of  his  coun- 
try, and  to  take  a  small  cottage  in  the  immediate  vicin- 
ity of  Cransley,  where  Blanche  was  able  to  realize  her 
preconceived  notions  of  refined  poverty  and  elegant 
indigence.  They  kept  a  cow,  and  their  butter  equalled 
that  at  Temple  Losely ;  their  cream  was  no  longer  blue 
milk  ;  they  baked  at  home  ;  and  instead  of  a  knocker  on 
the  door,  they  had  a  bell  with  a  respectable  country fied 
sound.  They  had  a  garden,  a  small  one  certainly  ;  but 
its  flowers  were  as  bright  as  those  at  Cransley,  and  the 
primroses  decidedly  blew  a  week  earlier  !  They  had  a 
veranda,  and  it  did  not  darken  the  room  much.  In 
short,  they  had  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot  requi- 
site for  real  happiness. 

They  were  enabled,  while  their  children  were  so 
young,  to  lay  by  something  to  assist  in  their  education 
as  they  grew  older;  and  they  began  to  think  that  Milly 
Roberts  was  wrong,  and  that  some  fortunate  people 
were  without  "  (heir  troubles,"  when  Mr.  Stapleford 
paid  them  a  morning  visit  from  Cransley,  and  enlight- 
ened their  minds  as  to  the  one  only  point  on  which 
their  fate  might  admit  of  amelioration. 

After  expressing  his  astonishment  at  their  not  know- 
ing all  the  innumerable  pieces  of  scandal  which  he 
retailed  to  them  ;  at  their  not  having  read  all  the  new 


252  BLANCHE. 

novels  of  the  last  spring- ;  at  their  not  having  seen  the 
new  actress,  heard  the  last  singer,  visited  the  last  exhi- 
bition, and  become  intimate  with  the  last  brides  of  the 
season  ;  he  exclaimed,  "  Why,  dear  Lady  Blanche,  you 
will  let  the  grass  grow  over  your  intellect,  as  you  are 
letting  it  grow  ove<r  the  gravel  before  your  door  !  One 
can  see  by  your  road  and  your  conversation  thatCrans- 
ley  has  been  uninhabited,  and  that  Lady  VVesthope  has 
been  in  London,  while  you  have  been  in  the  country, 
for  the  last  six  months  !" 

"  Oh,  come  and  help  us,  Mr.  Stapleford !  we  will 
soon  get  rid  of  the  weeds  out  of  doors.  Emma,  fetch 
the  gardening  basket ;  Henry,  bring  your  old  knife  ; 
Arthur,  where  is  my  rake  ?  and  Frank,  if  you  will  get 
the  roller,  we  will  make  our  little  bit  of  gravel  quite 
nice  before  Lady  Westhope  calls." 

"  Of  course  I  am  d  vos  ordres,  Lady  Blanche  ;  but  I 
assure  you,  I  shall  be  vastly  more  useful  in  polishing 
your  mind  than  your  garden.  People  who  ruralize 
all  the  year  round,  and  cannot  therefore  be  au  courant 
of  what  is  going  on  in  the  world,  should  never  let  slip 
an  opportunity  of  instruction," 

"  There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say,"  replied 
Blanche,  as  she  looked  up  from  her  labours,  with  spark- 
ling eyes,  and  a  complexion  dazzling  in  its  brightness 
from  the  warmth  of  the  day  and  the  nature  of  her  em- 
ployment :  then  shaking  back  her  curls,  she  bade  him 
seat  himself  on  the  bench  beneath  the  young  acacia, 
and  tell  her  "  every  thing  about  everybody." 

"  Well,  then,  Lord  D.  did  not  propose,  after  all,  to 
Miss  C.  ;  but  set  off  for  Paris,  just  as  the  family  was 
on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation,  thinking  every  double 
knock  was  the  peer  come  to  propose  in  person,  and 
every  single  knock  was  a  special  messenger  bearing  a 
written  offer  of  his  hand  and  heart." 

"  I  did  not  know  Miss  C.  was  grown  up :  does  she 
turn  out  pretty  ?" 

"  Heavens  !  Lady  Blanche,  she  has  been  out  these 
two  years  !  and  everybody  thinks  her  quite  gone  off. 
She  was  pretty  when  the  duke  made  such  a  fuss  with 


BLANCHE.  253 

her  at  her  first  ball ;  but  Mrs^L.  thought  it  an  insult  to 
her  charms." 

"Mrs.  L.'s  charms  !  I  thought  she  was  so  very  plain !" 

"  Plain  !  why  she  has  been  a  beauty  these  three 
years.  Lady  G.  betted  Captain  S.  an  amber-headed 
cane  to  an  ivory  fan,  that  within  a  month  she.wo'uld 
talk  her  into  being  a  beauty:  and  ske  did  so,  in  three 
weeks  and  two  days — five  days  within  the  prescribed 
period.  tVhen  once  Lady  G.  had  given  her  a  start,  she 
had  the  ingenuity  to  keep  it.  Her  portrait  now  adorns 
the  Annuals,  and  the  duke  has  worn  her  chains  for  two 
years  and  a  lialf.  But  I  must  not  linger  here  any 
longer,'' or  I  shall  be  late  at  dinner.  Good-morning, 
dear  Lady  Blanche ;  your  simplicity  is  quite  piquant, 
and  absolutely  refreshes  me.  You  dine  at  Cransiey  to- 
morrow, when  I  will  finish  rubbing  the  rust  off  your 
mind." 

That  evening  Lady  Blanche  remarked  to  De  Molton  : 
"  The  only  little  drawback  to  our  perfect  happiness  is, 
that  certainly  one  does  grow  very  dull,  and  very  stupid, 
knowing  nothing  that  goes  on  in  the  world  !  Yet,  after 
all,  how  much  better  to  be  like  you,  than  Mr.  Staple- 
ford!  Yes,  notwithstanding  the  grass  that  has  grown 
over  our  minds,  I  do  believe  ours  is  the  happiest  position 
in  life — that  we  have  the  fewest  troubles  and  the  great- 
est number  of  blessings.  I  think  I  may  now  say,  with 
truth,  and  without  enthusiastic  nonsense,  that  we  are 
happier  than  if  we  possessed  the  mines  of  Golconda. 
I  told  you  so  when  we  left  Sir  Frederick  Vyneton's 
villa  after  our  honeymoon  ;  and  you  then  declared  how 
happy  you  should  be  if  I  said  the  same  at  the  end  of 
two  years.  I  could  not  have  said  so  then  ;  but  I  can 
now,  after  eight  years  of  marriage." 

We  need  not  add,  that  De  Molton  was  indeed  per- 
fectly happy,  nor  that  he  told  his  wife  he  was  so. 

THE    END. 


VOL.    II. 


WORKS    JUST    PUBLISHED. 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  U.  STATES 
FRIGATE  POTOMAC,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Conamodore  John  Downes,  during  the  Cir- 
cumnavigation of  the  Globe ;  in  the  Years  1831, 
1832,  1833,  1834.  By  J.  N.  Reynolds.  With 
numerous  Engravings.     8vo. 

THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  READER. 
By  Lyman  Cobb.     ]2rao. 

SALMAGUNDI.  Revised  by  the  Authors.  Form- 
ing the  First  of  a  Series  of  Mr.  Paulding's  AVorks. 
12  mo. 

CONSTANTINOPLE  AND  ITS  EN- 
V  I  R  0  N  S.  By  Commodore  Porter.  2  vols. 
12mo. 

TALES  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  By 
B.  B.  Thatcher,  Esq.     18mo. 

P  E  L  H  A  M.  Revised  by  the  Author.  Being  the 
First  of  a  Series  of  Mr.  Bulwer's  Works.     12mo. 

THE  WIFE,  AND  WOMAN'S  RE- 
WARD. By  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton.  2  vols. 
12mo. 

NORMAN  LESLIE;  A  Tale  of  the  Present 
Times.    By  Theodore  S.  Fay,  Esq.    2  vols.  12mo. 

THE  BROTHERS.  A  Tale  of  the  Fronde.  2 
vols.  12mo. 

MATTHIAS  AND  HIS  IMPOSTURES. 
By  William  L.  Stone,  Esq.     18mo. 

THE  GIPSY.  By  the  Author  of  "  Richelieu."  2 
vols.   12mo. 

THE  STUDENT.  By  the  Author  of '' Pel- 
ham."     12mo. 

MY  LIFE.  By  the  Author  of  "  Stories  of  Wa- 
terloo."    2  vols,  12mo. 

THE  STUDY  OF  MEDICINE.  By 
John  Mason  Good.     In  2  vols.  8vo. 


^ 


■V. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A  001  425  732 


1 


^^mM 


'■^Mssg:' 


